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.