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Exeunt.

¶

[Flourish cornets.] Enter [the Prince of] Morocco, a tawny Moor, all in white, and three or four Followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa, and their Train.

Mor.

Mislike me not for my complexion,

The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun,

To whom I am a neighbor and near bred.

Bring me the fairest creature northward born,

Where Phoebus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles,

And let us make incision for your love,

To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.

I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine

Hath fear’d the valiant; by my love, I swear

The best-regarded virgins of our clime

Have lov’d it too. I would not change this hue,

Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

Por.

In terms of choice I am not soly led

By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes;

Besides, the lott’ry of my destiny

Bars me the right of voluntary choosing.

But if my father had not scanted me,

And hedg’d me by his wit to yield myself

His wife who wins me by that means I told you,

Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair