Oscar Wilde


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 Veronesé 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 accursèd Jew—
   O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.