shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun," had something too of its warmth and openness in the manner of his wooing.
"I would not change this hue,
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen."
That went straight to her woman's heart. "I am black, but fair," it said; and, like Desdemona, she could see "Othello's visage in his mind." But Desdemona's heart was fancy-free. Portia not only had a mind that could not be fancy-led, but her heart was lying in Bassanio's hand, where its life woke, like the gem whose color kindles better at the touch of warmth. Still, the recognition of the Emperor's frank passion came forth, toned at once by respect and courtesy:—
"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
As any comer I have look'd on yet."
She may safely say as much as that. And, when he fails, she smooths her exit from his mind by the kind phrase, "A gentle riddance." Then she marks the difference between the women whose hearts can reflect and the Desdemonas of mere sentiment. The former have a firm partition that prevents the mingling of venous and arterial blood: this in the latter has never been quite closed, or is too thin, and liable to be ruptured by emotion. So Desdemona,
"A maiden never bold,
Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion
Blush'd at herself,"
