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by Oscar Wilde

previous: Poem: Phedre

Poem: Portia

(To Ellen Terry)

I marvel not Bassanio was so bold
To peril all he had upon the lead,
Or that proud Aragon bent low his head
Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold:
For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
Which is more golden than the golden sun
No woman Veronese looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned,
And would not let the laws of Venice yield
Antonio's heart to that accursed Jew -
O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.

Turn to the next chapter: Poem: Queen Henrietta Maria

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