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Home  »  Poems by Oscar Wilde  »  49. Portia

Oscar Wilde (1854–1900). Poems. 1881.

49. Portia

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.