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Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco and their trains.
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| There are three caskets over there/ Choose from them but beware/ To win my hand/ You must understand/ Only one will hold my care. | |
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| The first is made of pure gold/ "What men desire" the fortune told/ The silver serves/ For what I deserve/ The third is dull and old | |
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He unlocks the golden casket.
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| Choose with your heart, good prince/ If you should find this evidence/ My photo is tucked inside/ Then I will be your bride/ And we shall live happily ever since. | |
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| I choose not the one of lead/ Nor the one with a silver bed/ Efficacious is the gold/ And from there my fortune told/ You are surely fucking with my head. | |
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Exuent Morocco with train.
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| This all gave me such a fright/ Looks like my hand will bed me tonight/ I will sleep alone/ For it is a scroll/ Not a photo in my sight. | |
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| If only your heart led your way/ Instead of greed seen here today/ You only want money/ And not a honey/ You're a loser so go away. | |
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