Othello

Tush! Never tell me. I take it much unkindly

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.

’Sblood, but you’ll not hear me! If ever I did dream of such a matter, abhor me.

Thou told’st me

Thou didst hold him in thy hate.

Despise me

If I do not. Three great ones of the city

(In personal suit to make me his lieutenant)

Off-capped to him, and by the faith of man

I know my price, I am worth no worse a place.

But he (as loving his own pride and purposes)

Evades them with a bombast circumstance

Horribly stuffed with epithets of war,

And in conclusion

Nonsuits my mediators. For “Certes,” says he,

“I have already chose my officer.”

And what was he?

Forsooth, a great arithmetician,

One Michael Cassio, a Florentine

(A fellow almost damned in a fair wife)

That never set a squadron in the field,

Nor the division of a battle knows

More than a spinster—unless the bookish theoric,

Wherein the toged consuls can propose

As masterly as he. Mere prattle without practice

Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had th’ election

And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof

At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds

Christian and heathen, must be belee’d and calmed

By debitor and creditor. This counter-caster

He (in good time) must his lieutenant be

And I, bless the mark, his Moorship’s ancient.

By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

Why, there’s no remedy. ’Tis the curse of service.

Preferment goes by letter and affection,

And not by old gradation, where each second

Stood heir to th’ first. Now sir, be judge yourself,

Whether I in any just term am affined

To love the Moor.

I would not follow him then.

O sir, content you.

I follow him to serve my turn upon him.

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters

Cannot be truly followed. You shall mark

Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave

That (doting on his own obsequious bondage)

Wears out his time much like his master’s ass

For naught but provender, and when he’s old, cashiered.

Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are

Who, trimmed in forms and visages of duty,

Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves

And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,

Do well thrive by them. And when they have lined their coats,

Do themselves homage. These fellows have some soul,

And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,

It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago.

In following him, I follow but myself.

Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,

But seeming so, for my peculiar end.

For when my outward action doth demonstrate

The native act and figure of my heart

In compliment extern, ’tis not long after

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve

For daws to peck at. I am not what I am.

What a full fortune does the Thick-lips owe

If he can carry’t thus!

Call up her father.

Rouse him. Make after him, Poison his delight,

Proclaim him in the streets. Incense her kinsmen,

And, though he in a fertile climate dwell,

Plague him with flies. Though that his joy be joy

Yet throw such changes of vexation on’t,

As it may lose some color.

Here is her father’s house, I’ll call aloud.

Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell

As when, by night and negligence, the fire

Is spied in populous cities.

What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

Awake! What, ho, Brabantio! Thieves! Thieves!

Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags!

Thieves! thieves!

What is the reason of this terrible summons?

What is the matter there?

Signior, is all your family within?

Are your doors locked?

Why, wherefore ask you this?

Zounds, sir, you’re robbed! For shame, put on your gown.

Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul.

Even now, now, very now, an old black ram

Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise,

Awake the snorting citizens with the bell

Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you.

Arise, I say!

What, have you lost your wits?

Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

Not I. What are you?

My name is Roderigo.

The worser welcome.

I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors.

In honest plainness thou hast heard me say

My daughter is not for thee. And now in madness,

Being full of supper and distempering drafts,

Upon malicious knavery dost thou come

To start my quiet?

Sir, sir, sir—

But thou must needs be sure

My spirits and my place have in their power

To make this bitter to thee.

Patience, good sir.

What tell’st thou me of robbing? This is Venice,

My house is not a grange.

Most grave Brabantio,

In simple and pure soul I come to you—

Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service and you think we are ruffians, you’ll have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse. You’ll have your nephews neigh to you. You’ll have coursers for cousins and gennets for germans.

What profane wretch art thou?

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

Thou art a villain!

You are a senator!

This thou shalt answer. I know thee, Roderigo.

Sir, I will answer any thing. But, I beseech you,

If’t be your pleasure and most wise consent

(As partly I find it is) that your fair daughter

At this odd-even and dull watch o’ th’ night

Transported with no worse nor better guard

But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,

To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor,

If this be known to you and your allowance,

We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs.

But if you know not this my manners tell me

We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe

That, from the sense of all civility,

I thus would play and trifle with your reverence.

Your daughter (if you have not given her leave)

I say again, hath made a gross revolt,

Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes

In an extravagant and wheeling stranger

Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself.

If she be in her chamber or your house,

Let loose on me the justice of the state

For thus deluding you.

Strike on the tinder, ho!

Give me a taper, call up all my people!

This accident is not unlike my dream,

Belief of it oppresses me already.

Light, I say, light!

(to RODERIGO)

Farewell, for I must leave you.

It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place,

To be producted (as, if I stay, I shall)

Against the Moor. For I do know the state

(However this may gall him with some check)

Cannot with safety cast him, for he’s embarked

With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars

(Which even now stand in act) that, for their souls,

Another of his fathom they have none

To lead their business. In which regard,

Though I do hate him as I do hell pains,

Yet for necessity of present life

I must show out a flag and sign of love,

(Which is indeed but sign). That you shall surely find him,

Lead to the Sagittary the raisèd search,

And there will I be with him. So farewell.

It is too true an evil. Gone she is.

And what’s to come of my despisèd time

Is naught but bitterness. Now, Roderigo,

Where didst thou see her?—Oh, unhappy girl!—

With the Moor, say’st thou?—Who would be a father?—

How didst thou know ’twas she?—Oh, she deceives me

Past thought!—What said she to you?—Get more tapers,

Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you?

Truly, I think they are.

Oh, heaven, how got she out? Oh, treason of the blood!

Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds

By what you see them act. Is there not charms

By which the property of youth and maidhood

May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo,

Of some such thing?

Yes, sir, I have indeed.

Call up my brother—Oh, would you had had her!

Some one way, some another. Do you know

Where we may apprehend her and the Moor?

I think I can discover him, if you please

To get good guard and go along with me.

Pray you lead on. At every house I’ll call.

I may command at most.—Get weapons, ho!

And raise some special officers of might.—

On, good Roderigo. I will deserve your pains.

Though in the trade of war I have slain men,

Yet do I hold it very stuff o’ th’ conscience

To do no contrived murder. I lack iniquity

Sometimes to do me service. Nine or ten times

I had thought t’ have yerked him here under the ribs.

’Tis better as it is.

Nay, but he prated

And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms

Against your honor

That, with the little godliness I have,

I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir,

Are you fast married? Be assured of this:

That the Magnifico is much beloved

And hath in his effect a voice potential

As double as the Duke’s. He will divorce you,

Or put upon you what restraint and grievance

The law (with all his might to enforce it on)

Will give him cable.

Let him do his spite.

My services which I have done the signiory

Shall out-tongue his complaints. ’Tis yet to know—

Which, when I know that boasting is an honor,

I shall promulgate. I fetch my life and being

From men of royal siege, and my demerits

May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune

As this that I have reached. For know, Iago,

But that I love the gentle Desdemona,

I would not my unhousèd free condition

Put into circumscription and confine

For the sea’s worth. But look, what lights come yond?

Those are the raisèd father and his friends.

You were best go in.

Not I, I must be found.

My parts, my title, and my perfect soul

Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they?

By Janus, I think no.

The servants of the Duke and my lieutenant?

The goodness of the night upon you, friends!

What is the news?

The Duke does greet you, general,

And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance,

Even on the instant.

What’s the matter, think you?

Something from Cyprus as I may divine.

It is a business of some heat. The galleys

Have sent a dozen sequent messengers

This very night at one another’s heels,

And many of the consuls, raised and met,

Are at the Duke’s already. You have been hotly called for.

When being not at your lodging to be found

The Senate hath sent about three several guests

To search you out.

’Tis well I am found by you.

I will but spend a word here in the house

And go with you.

Ancient, what makes he here?

Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carrack.

If it prove lawful prize, he’s made for ever.

I do not understand.

He’s married.

To who?

Marry, to—

Come, captain, will you go?

Have with you.

Here comes another troop to seek for you.

It is Brabantio. General, be advised,

He comes to bad intent.

Holla! Stand there!

Signior, it is the Moor.

Down with him, thief!

You, Roderigo! Come, sir, I am for you.

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

Good signior, you shall more command with years

Than with your weapons.

O thou foul thief, where hast thou stowed my daughter?

Damned as thou art, thou hast enchanted her!

For I’ll refer me to all things of sense,

If she in chains of magic were not bound,

Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy,

So opposite to marriage that she shunned

The wealthy curlèd darlings of our nation,

Would ever have, t’ incur a general mock,

Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom

Of such a thing as thou—to fear, not to delight.

Judge me the world if ’tis not gross in sense

That thou hast practiced on her with foul charms,

Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals

That weakens motion. I’ll have ’t disputed on.

’Tis probable and palpable to thinking.

I therefore apprehend and do attach thee

For an abuser of the world, a practicer

Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.—

Lay hold upon him. If he do resist,

Subdue him at his peril!

Hold your hands,

Both you of my inclining and the rest.

Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it

Without a prompter. Whither will you that I go

To answer this your charge?

To prison, till fit time

Of law and course of direct session

Call thee to answer.

What if I do obey?

How may the Duke be therewith satisfied,

Whose messengers are here about my side

Upon some present business of the state

To bring me to him?

’Tis true, most worthy signior.

The Duke’s in council and your noble self,

I am sure, is sent for.

How? The Duke in council?

In this time of the night? Bring him away.

Mine’s not an idle cause. The Duke himself,

Or any of my brothers of the state,

Cannot but feel this wrong as ’twere their own.

For if such actions may have passage free,

Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.

There’s no composition in this news

That gives them credit.

Indeed, they are disproportioned.

My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.

And mine a hundred and forty.

And mine, two hundred.

But though they jump not on a just account—

As in these cases, where the aim reports

’Tis oft with difference—yet do they all confirm

A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.

Nay, it is possible enough to judgment.

I do not so secure me in the error,

But the main article I do approve

In fearful sense.

(within)

What, ho, what, ho, what, ho!

A messenger from the galleys.

Now, what’s the business?

The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes,

So was I bid report here to the state

By Signior Angelo.

How say you by this change?

This cannot be,

By no assay of reason. ’Tis a pageant,

To keep us in false gaze. When we consider

Th’ importancy of Cyprus to the Turk,

And let ourselves again but understand

That as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes

So may he with more facile question bear it,

For that it stands not in such warlike brace

But altogether lacks th’ abilities

That Rhodes is dressed in. If we make thought of this

We must not think the Turk is so unskillful

To leave that latest which concerns him first,

Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain

To wake and wage a danger profitless.

Nay, in all confidence, he’s not for Rhodes.

Here is more news.

The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,

Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes,

Have there injointed them with an after fleet.

Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess?

Of thirty sail. And now they do re-stem

Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance

Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano,

Your trusty and most valiant servitor,

With his free duty recommends you thus,

And prays you to believe him.

’Tis certain then for Cyprus.

Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?

He’s now in Florence.

Write from us to him. Post-post-haste, dispatch.

Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you

Against the general enemy Ottoman—

(to BRABANTIO) I did not see you. Welcome, gentle signior.

We lacked your counsel and your help tonight.

So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me.

Neither my place nor aught I heard of business

Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care

Take hold on me, for my particular grief

Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature

That it engluts and swallows other sorrows

And it is still itself.

Why, what’s the matter?

My daughter! Oh, my daughter!

Dead?

Ay, to me.

She is abused, stol’n from me, and corrupted

By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks.

For nature so prepost’rously to err,

Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,

Sans witchcraft could not.

Whoe’er he be that in this foul proceeding

Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself

And you of her, the bloody book of law

You shall yourself read in the bitter letter,

After your own sense, yea, though our proper son

Stood in your action.

Humbly I thank your grace.

Here is the man, this Moor, whom now it seems,

Your special mandate for the state affairs

Hath hither brought.

We are very sorry for’t.

(to OTHELLO) What, in your own part, can you say to this?

Nothing, but this is so.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

My very noble and approved good masters,

That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,

It is most true. True, I have married her.

The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,

And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace,

For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used

Their dearest action in the tented field,

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broils and battle,

And therefore little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnished tale deliver

Of my whole course of love. What drugs, what charms,

What conjuration and what mighty magic—

For such proceeding I am charged withal—

I won his daughter.

A maiden never bold,

Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion

Blushed at herself. And she, in spite of nature,

Of years, of country, credit, everything,

To fall in love with what she feared to look on?

It is a judgment maimed and most imperfect

That will confess perfection so could err.

Against all rules of nature, and must be driven

To find out practices of cunning hell

Why this should be. I therefore vouch again

That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood

Or with some dram, conjured to this effect,

He wrought upon her.

To vouch this is no proof,

Without more wider and more overt test

Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods

Of modern seeming do prefer against him.

But, Othello, speak.

Did you by indirect and forcèd courses

Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections?

Or came it by request and such fair question

As soul to soul affordeth?

I do beseech you,

Send for the lady to the Sagittary,

And let her speak of me before her father.

If you do find me foul in her report

The trust, the office I do hold of you,

Not only take away, but let your sentence

Even fall upon my life.

Fetch Desdemona hither.

Ancient, conduct them. You best know the place.

And till she come, as truly as to heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood

So justly to your grave ears I’ll present

How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love

And she in mine.

Say it, Othello.

Her father loved me, oft invited me,

Still questioned me the story of my life

From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,

That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,

To th’ very moment that he bade me tell it,

Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of hair-breadth ’scapes i’ th’ imminent deadly breach,

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence

And portance in my traveler’s history.

Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, hills whose heads touch heaven

It was my hint to speak—such was my process—

And of the Cannibals that each others eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Grew beneath their shoulders. These things to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline.

But still the house affairs would draw her hence,

Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,

She’d come again, and with a greedy ear

Devour up my discourse, which I, observing,

Took once a pliant hour and found good means

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,

Whereof by parcels she had something heard

But not intentively. I did consent,

And often did beguile her of her tears

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffered. My story being done

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.

She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange,

’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful.

She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished

That heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake.

She loved me for the dangers I had passed,

And I loved her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have used.

Here comes the lady. Let her witness it.

I think this tale would win my daughter too.

Good Brabantio. Take up this mangled matter at the best.

Men do their broken weapons rather use

Than their bare hands.

I pray you, hear her speak.

If she confess that she was half the wooer,

Destruction on my head if my bad blame

Light on the man.—Come hither, gentle mistress.

Do you perceive in all this noble company

Where most you owe obedience?

My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty.

To you I am bound for life and education.

My life and education both do learn me

How to respect you. You are the lord of duty.

I am hitherto your daughter. But here’s my husband.

And so much duty as my mother showed

To you, preferring you before her father,

So much I challenge that I may profess

Due to the Moor my lord.

God be with you. I have done.

Please it your grace, on to the state affairs.

I had rather to adopt a child than get it.—

Come hither, Moor.

I here do give thee that with all my heart

Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart

I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel,

I am glad at soul I have no other child.

For thy escape would teach me tyranny,

To hang clogs on them.—I have done, my lord.

Let me speak like yourself and lay a sentence

Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers.

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended

By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone

Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

What cannot be preserved when fortune takes,

Patience her injury a mock’ry makes.

The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief,

He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile,

We lose it not, so long as we can smile.

He bears the sentence well that nothing bears

But the free comfort which from thence he hears.

But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow

That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow.

These sentences to sugar or to gall,

Being strong on both sides, are equivocal.

But words are words. I never yet did hear

That the bruised heart was piercèd through the ears.

I humbly beseech you, proceed to th’ affairs of state.

The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you, and though we have there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on you. You must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this more stubborn and boist’rous expedition.

The tyrant custom, most grave senators,

Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war

My thrice-driven bed of down. I do agnize

A natural and prompt alacrity

I find in hardness, and do undertake

These present wars against the Ottomites.

Most humbly therefore bending to your state,

I crave fit disposition for my wife.

Due reference of place and exhibition,

With such accommodation and besort

As levels with her breeding.

Why, at her father’s.

I’ll not have it so.

Nor I.

Nor would I there reside,

To put my father in impatient thoughts

By being in his eye. Most gracious Duke,

To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear

And let me find a charter in your voice,

T’ assist my simpleness.

What would you, Desdemona?

That I did love the Moor to live with him,

My downright violence and storm of fortunes

May trumpet to the world. My heart’s subdued

Even to the very quality of my lord.

I saw Othello’s visage in his mind,

And to his honors and his valiant parts

Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate.

So that, dear lords, if I be left behind

A moth of peace and he go to the war,

The rites for which I love him are bereft me,

And I a heavy interim shall support

By his dear absence. Let me go with him.

Let her have your voice.

Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not

To please the palate of my appetite,

Nor to comply with heat the young affects

In my defunct and proper satisfaction,

But to be free and bounteous to her mind,

And heaven defend your good souls, that you think

I will your serious and great business scant

When she is with me. No, when light-winged toys

Of feathered Cupid seel with wanton dullness

My speculative and officed instrument,

That my disports corrupt and taint my business,

Let housewives make a skillet of my helm

And all indign and base adversities

Make head against my estimation.

Be it as you shall privately determine,

Either for her stay or going. Th’ affair cries haste

And speed must answer it.

You must away tonight.

With all my heart.

At nine i’ th’ morning here we’ll meet again.

Othello, leave some officer behind

And he shall our commission bring to you,

And such things else of quality and respect

As doth import you.

So please your grace, my ancient.

A man he is of honesty and trust.

To his conveyance I assign my wife,

With what else needful your good grace shall think

To be sent after me.

Let it be so.

Good night to every one.—

(to BRABANTIO) And, noble signior,

If virtue no delighted beauty lack,

Your son-in-law is far more fair than black.

Adieu, brave Moor. Use Desdemona well.

Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see.

She has deceived her father, and may thee.

My life upon her faith!—Honest Iago,

My Desdemona must I leave to thee.

I prithee, let thy wife attend on her,

And bring them after in the best advantage.

Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour

Of love, of worldly matter and direction,

To spend with thee. We must obey the time.

Iago.

What say’st thou, noble heart?

What will I do, think’st thou?

Why, go to bed, and sleep.

I will incontinently drown myself.

If thou dost I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman!

It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.

Oh, villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of a guinea hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon.

What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue to amend it.

Virtue? A fig! ’Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners. So that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many—either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured with industry—why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most prepost’rous conclusions. But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts. Whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion.

It cannot be.

It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man. Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies! I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness. I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse. Follow thou the wars, defeat thy favor with an usurped beard. I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be long that Desdemona should continue her love to the Moor—put money in thy purse—nor he his to her. It was a violent commencement in her, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration—put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills—fill thy purse with money. The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must change for youth. When she is sated with his body she will find the errors of her choice. Therefore, put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her. Therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! ’Tis clean out of the way. Seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her.

Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue?

Thou art sure of me. Go, make money. I have told thee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, I hate the Moor. My cause is hearted. Thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him. If thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered. Traverse, go, provide thy money. We will have more of this tomorrow. Adieu.

Where shall we meet i’ th’ morning?

At my lodging.

I’ll be with thee betimes.

Go to, farewell.

Do you hear, Roderigo?

What say you?

No more of drowning, do you hear?

I am changed.

Go to, farewell. Put money enough in your purse.

I’ll sell all my land.

Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.

For I mine own gained knowledge should profane

If I would time expend with such a snipe

But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor,

And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets

He’s done my office. I know not if ’t be true,

But I, for mere suspicion in that kind,

Will do as if for surety. He holds me well.

The better shall my purpose work on him.

Cassio’s a proper man. Let me see now,

To get his place and to plume up my will

In double knavery. How? How? Let’s see.

After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear

That he is too familiar with his wife.

He hath a person and a smooth dispose

To be suspected, framed to make women false.

The Moor is of a free and open nature

That thinks men honest that but seem to be so,

And will as tenderly be led by th’ nose

As asses are.

I have ’t. It is engendered! Hell and night

Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light.

What from the cape can you discern at sea?

Nothing at all. It is a high-wrought flood.

I cannot ’twixt the heaven and the main

Descry a sail.

Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land,

A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements.

If it hath ruffianed so upon the sea

What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,

Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?

A segregation of the Turkish fleet.

For do but stand upon the foaming shore,

The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds,

The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane,

Seems to cast water on the burning bear,

And quench the guards of th’ ever-fixèd pole.

I never did like molestation view

On the enchafèd flood.

If that the Turkish fleet

Be not ensheltered and embayed, they are drowned.

It is impossible they bear it out.

News, lads, Our wars are done!

The desperate tempest hath so banged the Turks,

That their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice

Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance

On most part of their fleet.

How? Is this true?

The ship is here put in,

A Veronesa. Michael Cassio,

Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello,

Is come on shore. The Moor himself at sea

And is in full commission here for Cyprus.

I am glad on ’t. ’Tis a worthy governor.

But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort

Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly

And prays the Moor be safe. For they were parted

With foul and violent tempest.

Pray heavens he be,

For I have served him, and the man commands

Like a full soldier. Let’s to the seaside, ho!

As well to see the vessel that’s come in

As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello,

Even till we make the main and th’ aerial blue

An indistinct regard.

Come, let’s do so.

For every minute is expectancy

Of more arrivance.

Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle

That so approve the Moor. Oh, let the heavens

Give him defense against the elements,

For I have lost him on a dangerous sea.

Is he well shipped?

His bark is stoutly timbered and his pilot

Of very expert and approved allowance

Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,

Stand in bold cure.

(within) A sail, a sail, a sail!

What noise?

The town is empty. On the brow o’ th’ sea

Stand ranks of people, and they cry “A sail!”

My hopes do shape him for the governor.

They do discharge their shot of courtesy.

Our friends at least.

I pray you sir, go forth

And give us truth who ’tis that is arrived.

I shall.

But good lieutenant, is your general wived?

Most fortunately. He hath achieved a maid

That paragons description and wild fame,

One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,

And in th’ essential vesture of creation

Does tire the ingener.

How now? Who has put in?

’Tis one Iago, ancient to the general.

He’s had most favorable and happy speed.

Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,

The guttered rocks and congregated sands,

Traitors ensteeped to enclog the guiltless keel,

As having sense of beauty, do omit

Their mortal natures, letting go safely by

The divine Desdemona.

What is she?

She that I spake of, our great captain’s captain,

Left in the conduct of the bold Iago,

Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts

A se’nnight’s speed. Great Jove, Othello guard,

And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,

That he may bless this bay with his tall ship,

Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms,

Give renewed fire to our extincted spirits

And bring all Cyprus comfort!

Oh, behold,

The riches of the ship is come on shore!

You men of Cyprus, let her have your knees.

Hail to thee, lady, and the grace of heaven,

Before, behind thee, and on every hand,

Enwheel thee round!

I thank you, valiant Cassio.

What tidings can you tell me of my lord?

He is not yet arrived. Nor know I aught

But that he’s well and will be shortly here.

Oh, but I fear. How lost you company?

The great contention of the sea and skies

Parted our fellowship—

(within) A sail, a sail!

But, hark! a sail.

They give this greeting to the citadel.

This likewise is a friend.

See for the news.

Good ancient, you are welcome.—Welcome, mistress.

(kisses EMILIA)

Let it not gall your patience, good Iago,

That I extend my manners. ’Tis my breeding

That gives me this bold show of courtesy.

Sir, would she give you so much of her lips

As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,

You’ll have enough.

Alas, she has no speech!

In faith, too much.

I find it still, when I have leave to sleep.

Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,

She puts her tongue a little in her heart

And chides with thinking.

You have little cause to say so.

Come on, come on. You are pictures out of door, bells in your parlors, wild-cats in your kitchens, saints in your injuries, devils being offended, players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.

Oh, fie upon thee, slanderer!

Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk.

You rise to play and go to bed to work.

You shall not write my praise.

No, let me not.

What wouldst thou write of me, if thou should’st praise me?

O gentle lady, do not put me to ’t,

For I am nothing, if not critical.

Come on, assay. There’s one gone to the harbor?

Ay, madam.

I am not merry, but I do beguile

The thing I am by seeming otherwise.

Come, how wouldst thou praise me?

I am about it, but indeed my invention

Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze,

It plucks out brains and all. But my Muse labors

And thus she is delivered:

If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,

The one’s for use, the other useth it.

Well praised! How if she be black and witty?

If she be black, and thereto have a wit,

She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit.

Worse and worse!

How if fair and foolish?

She never yet was foolish that was fair,

For even her folly helped her to an heir.

These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i’ th’ alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her That’s foul and foolish?

There’s none so foul and foolish thereunto,

But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.

Oh, heavy ignorance! Thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that in the authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?

She that was ever fair and never proud,

Had tongue at will and yet was never loud,

Never lacked gold and yet went never gay,

Fled from her wish and yet said “Now I may,”

She that being angered, her revenge being nigh,

Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly,

She that in wisdom never was so frail

To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail,

She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind,

See suitors following and not look behind,

She was a wight, if ever such wights were—

To do what?

To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.

Oh, most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say you, Cassio? Is he not a most profane and liberal counselor?

He speaks home, madam. You may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar.

(aside) He takes her by the palm. Ay, well said, whisper! With as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do, I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true, ’Tis so, indeed. If such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt to play the sir in. Very good, well kissed, and excellent courtesy! ’tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips? Would they were clyster-pipes for your sake!—

The Moor! I know his trumpet.

’Tis truly so.

Let’s meet him and receive him.

Lo, where he comes!

Oh my fair warrior!

My dear Othello!

It gives me wonder great as my content

To see you here before me. Oh, my soul’s joy!

If after every tempest come such calms,

May the winds blow till they have wakened death,

And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas

Olympus-high, and duck again as low

As hell’s from heaven! If it were now to die,

’Twere now to be most happy, for I fear

My soul hath her content so absolute

That not another comfort like to this

Succeeds in unknown fate.

The heavens forbid

But that our loves and comforts should increase,

Even as our days do grow.

Amen to that, sweet powers!

I cannot speak enough of this content.

It stops me here, it is too much of joy.

And this, and this, the greatest discords be (kissing her)

That e’er our hearts shall make!

(aside)

Oh, you are well tuned now,

But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music,

As honest as I am.

Come, let us to the castle.

News, friends! Our wars are done, the Turks are drowned.

How does my old acquaintance of this isle?—

Honey, you shall be well desired in Cyprus,

I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet,

I prattle out of fashion, and I dote

In mine own comforts.—I prithee, good Iago,

Go to the bay and disembark my coffers.

Bring thou the master to the citadel.

He is a good one, and his worthiness

Does challenge much respect.—Come, Desdemona,

Once more, well met at Cyprus.

Do thou meet me presently at the harbor.—Come hither. If thou be’st valiant, as they say base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them, list me. The lieutenant tonight watches on the court of guard. First, I must tell thee this: Desdemona is directly in love with him.

With him? Why, ’tis not possible.

Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging and telling her fantastical lies. To love him still for prating? Let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed, and what delight shall she have to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should be a game to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favor, sympathy in years, manners and beauties. All which the Moor is defective in. Now for want of these required conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor. Very nature will instruct her in it and compel her to some second choice. Now sir, this granted—as it is a most pregnant and unforced position—who stands so eminent in the degree of this fortune as Cassio does? A knave very voluble, no further conscionable than in putting on the mere form of civil and humane seeming, for the better compassing of his salt and most hidden loose affection. Why, none, why, none! A slipper and subtle knave, a finder of occasions that has an eye, can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself. A devilish knave. Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green minds look after. A pestilent complete knave, and the woman hath found him already.

I cannot believe that in her. She’s full of most blessed condition.

Blessed fig’s-end! The wine she drinks is made of grapes. If she had been blessed, she would never have loved the Moor. Blessed pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? Didst not mark that?

Yes, that I did, but that was but courtesy.

Lechery, by this hand, an index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together. Villainous thoughts, Roderigo! When these mutabilities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, th’ incorporate conclusion. Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me. I have brought you from Venice. Watch you tonight for the command, I’ll lay ’t upon you. Cassio knows you not. I’ll not be far from you. Do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline, or from what other course you please, which the time shall more favorably minister.

Well.

Sir, he’s rash and very sudden in choler, and haply may strike at you. Provoke him that he may. For even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose qualification shall come into no true taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them, and the impediment most profitably removed, without the which there were no expectation of our prosperity.

I will do this, if you can bring it to any opportunity.

I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel. I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewell.

Adieu.

That Cassio loves her, I do well believe ’t.

That she loves him, ’tis apt and of great credit.

The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,

Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,

And I dare think he’ll prove to Desdemona

A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too,

Not out of absolute lust—though peradventure

I stand accountant for as great a sin—

But partly led to diet my revenge,

For that I do suspect the lusty Moor

Hath leaped into my seat. The thought whereof

Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards,

And nothing can or shall content my soul

Till I am evened with him, wife for wife.

Or, failing so, yet that I put the Moor

At least into a jealousy so strong

That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do,

If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trace

For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,

I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,

Abuse him to the Moor in the right garb

(For I fear Cassio with my night-cape too)

Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me

For making him egregiously an ass

And practicing upon his peace and quiet

Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confused.

Knavery’s plain face is never seen till used.

It is Othello’s pleasure, our noble and valiant general, that, upon certain tidings now arrived, importing the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet, every man put himself into triumph: some to dance, some to make bonfires, each man to what sport and revels his addiction leads him. For besides these beneficial news, it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his pleasure should be proclaimed. All offices are open, and there is full liberty of feasting from this present hour of five till the bell have told eleven. Bless the isle of Cyprus and our noble general Othello!

Good Michael, look you to the guard tonight.

Let’s teach ourselves that honorable stop

Not to outsport discretion.

Iago hath direction what to do,

But notwithstanding with my personal eye

Will I look to ’t.

Iago is most honest.

Michael, good night. Tomorrow with your earliest

Let me have speech with you.—

Come, my dear love,

The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue:

That profit’s yet to come ’tween me and you.

Good night.

Welcome, Iago. We must to the watch.

Not this hour, lieutenant, ’tis not yet ten o’ the clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona—who let us not therefore blame. He hath not yet made wanton the night with her, and she is sport for Jove.

She’s a most exquisite lady.

And, I’ll warrant her, full of game.

Indeed she’s a most fresh and delicate creature.

What an eye she has! Methinks it sounds a parley to provocation.

An inviting eye, and yet methinks right modest.

And when she speaks, is it not an alarum to love?

She is indeed perfection.

Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stoup of wine, and here without are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the health of black Othello.

Not tonight, good Iago. I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.

Oh, they are our friends. But one cup. I’ll drink for you.

I have drunk but one cup tonight, and that was craftily qualified too, and behold what innovation it makes here. I am unfortunate in the infirmity, and dare not task my weakness with any more.

What, man, ’tis a night of revels! The gallants desire it.

Where are they?

Here at the door. I pray you call them in.

I’ll do ’t, but it dislikes me.

If I can fasten but one cup upon him,

With that which he hath drunk tonight already,

He’ll be as full of quarrel and offense

As my young mistress’ dog. Now my sick fool Roderigo,

Whom love hath turned almost the wrong side out,

To Desdemona hath tonight caroused

Potations pottle-deep, and he’s to watch.

Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits

(That hold their honors in a wary distance,

The very elements of this warlike isle)

Have I tonight flustered with flowing cups,

And they watch too. Now ’mongst this flock of drunkards

Am I to put our Cassio in some action

That may offend the isle.

But here they come.

If consequence do but approve my dream

My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream.

’Fore heaven, they have given me a rouse already.

Good faith, a little one, not past a pint, As I am a soldier.

Some wine, ho!

(sings)

And let me the cannikin clink, clink,

And let me the cannikin clink.

A soldier’s a man,

A life’s but a span,

Why then let a soldier drink.

Some wine, boys!

Fore heaven, an excellent song.

I learned it in England where indeed they are most potent in potting. Your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander—Drink, ho!—are nothing to your English.

Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking?

Why, he drinks you with facility your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain. He gives your Hollander a vomit ere the next pottle can be filled.

To the health of our general!

I am for it, lieutenant, and I’ll do you justice.

Oh, sweet England!

(sings)

King Stephen was a worthy peer,

His breeches cost him but a crown,

He held them sixpence all too dear,

With that he called the tailor lown.

He was a wight of high renown,

And thou art but of low degree,

’Tis pride that pulls the country down,

Then take thine auld cloak about thee.

Some wine, ho!

Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other.

Will you hear ’t again?

No, for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, heaven’s above all, and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.

It’s true, good lieutenant.

For mine own part, no offence to the general nor any man of quality, I hope to be saved.

And so do I too, lieutenant.

Ay, but (by your leave) not before me. The lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let’s have no more of this, let’s to our affairs.—Forgive us our sins!—Gentlemen, let’s look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk. This is my ancient, this is my right hand, and this is my left. I am not drunk now. I can stand well enough, and I speak well enough.

Excellent well!

Why, very well then. You must not think then that I am drunk.

To th’ platform, masters. Come, let’s set the watch.

You see this fellow that is gone before,

He is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar

And give direction. And do but see his vice,

’Tis to his virtue a just equinox,

The one as long as th’ other. ’Tis pity of him.

I fear the trust Othello puts him in

On some odd time of his infirmity

Will shake this island.

But is he often thus?

’Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep.

He’ll watch the horologe a double set

If drink rock not his cradle.

It were well

The general were put in mind of it.

Perhaps he sees it not, or his good nature

Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio

And looks not on his evils. Is not this true?

(aside) How now, Roderigo?

I pray you, after the lieutenant, go!

And ’tis great pity that the noble Moor

Should hazard such a place as his own second

With one of an ingraft infirmity.

It were an honest action to say

So to the Moor.

Not I, for this fair island.

I do love Cassio well, and would do much

To cure him of this evil—

But, hark! What noise?

Zounds! You rogue! You rascal!

What’s the matter, lieutenant?

A knave teach me my duty?

I’ll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle.

Beat me?

Dost thou prate, rogue? (strikes him)

Nay, good lieutenant! I pray you, sir, hold your hand. (stays him)

Let me go, sir, or I’ll knock you o’er the mazzard.

Come, come, you’re drunk.

Drunk?

(aside to RODERIGO)

Away, I say, go out, and cry a mutiny.—

Nay, good lieutenant! Alas, gentlemen—

Help, ho!— Lieutenant—sir, Montano—

Help, masters!—Here’s a goodly watch indeed!

Who’s that which rings the bell?—Diablo, ho!

The town will rise. Fie, Fie, lieutenant,

You’ll be ashamed for ever.

What is the matter here?

I bleed still,

I am hurt to the death. He dies!

Hold, for your lives!

Hold, ho! Lieutenant—sir, Montano—gentlemen,

Have you forgot all place of sense and duty?

Hold! The general speaks to you. Hold, for shame!

Why, how now, ho! From whence ariseth this?

Are we turned Turks? And to ourselves do that

Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?

For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl.

He that stirs next to carve for his own rage

Holds his soul light, he dies upon his motion.

Silence that dreadful bell, it frights the isle

From her propriety. What is the matter, masters?—

Honest Iago, that looks dead with grieving,

Speak, who began this? On thy love, I charge thee.

I do not know. Friends all but now, even now,

In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom

Divesting them for bed. And then, but now,

As if some planet had unwitted men,

Swords out, and tilting one at other’s breasts

In opposition bloody. I cannot speak

Any beginning to this peevish odds,

And would in action glorious I had lost

Those legs that brought me to a part of it.

How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot?

I pray you pardon me, I cannot speak.

Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil.

The gravity and stillness of your youth

The world hath noted, and your name is great

In mouths of wisest censure. What’s the matter

That you unlace your reputation thus

And spend your rich opinion for the name

Of a night-brawler? Give me answer to it.

Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger.

Your officer Iago can inform you,

While I spare speech, which something now offends me,

Of all that I do know. Nor know I aught

By me that’s said or done amiss this night,

Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice,

And to defend ourselves it be a sin

When violence assails us.

Now, by heaven,

My blood begins my safer guides to rule,

And passion, having my best judgment collied,

Assays to lead the way. If I once stir,

Or do but lift this arm, the best of you

Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know

How this foul rout began, who set it on,

And he that is approved in this offence,

Though he had twinned with me, both at a birth,

Shall lose me. What, in a town of war

Yet wild, the people’s hearts brimful of fear,

To manage private and domestic quarrel?

In night, and on the court and guard of safety?

’Tis monstrous. Iago, who began ’t?

If partially affined or leagued in office

Thou dost deliver more or less than truth

Thou art no soldier.

Touch me not so near.

I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth

Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio.

Yet I persuade myself to speak the truth

Shall nothing wrong him. This it is, general:

Montano and myself being in speech,

There comes a fellow crying out for help

And Cassio following him with determined sword

To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman

Steps in to Cassio and entreats his pause,

Myself the crying fellow did pursue,

Lest by his clamor—as it so fell out—

The town might fall in fright. He, swift of foot,

Outran my purpose, and I returned then rather

For that I heard the clink and fall of swords

And Cassio high in oath, which till tonight

I ne’er might say before. When I came back—

For this was brief— I found them close together

At blow and thrust, even as again they were

When you yourself did part them.

More of this matter cannot I report.

But men are men, the best sometimes forget.

Though Cassio did some little wrong to him,

As men in rage strike those that wish them best,

Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received

From him that fled some strange indignity

Which patience could not pass.

I know, Iago,

Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter,

Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee

But never more be officer of mine.—

Look, if my gentle love be not raised up!

I’ll make thee an example.

What’s the matter, dear?

All’s well, sweeting,

Come away to bed.—(to MONTANO) Sir, for your hurts

Myself will be your surgeon. Lead him off.

Iago, look with care about the town

And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted.—

Come, Desdemona, ’tis the soldiers’ life

To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.

What, are you hurt, lieutenant?

Ay, past all surgery.

Marry, heaven forbid!

Reputation, reputation, reputation! Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!

As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound. There is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving. You have lost no reputation at all unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man, there are ways to recover the general again. You are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice, even so as one would beat his offenseless dog to affright an imperious lion. Sue to him again and he’s yours.

I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? And speak parrot? And squabble? Swagger? Swear? And discourse fustian with one’s own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil!

What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you?

I know not.

Is ’t possible?

I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly. A quarrel, but nothing wherefore. Oh, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! That we should, with joy, pleasance revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!

Why, but you are now well enough. How came you thus recovered?

It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath. One unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself.

Come, you are too severe a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen. But since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.

I will ask him for my place again, he shall tell me I am a drunkard. Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! Oh, strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.

Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used. Exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you.

I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!

You or any man living may be drunk at a time, man. I tell you what you shall do. Our general’s wife is now the general. I may say so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces. Confess yourself freely to her, importune her help to put you in your place again. She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter, and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before.

You advise me well.

I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.

I think it freely, and betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me. I am desperate of my fortunes if they check me.

You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant, I must to the watch.

Good night, honest Iago.

And what’s he then that says I play the villain?

When this advice is free I give and honest,

Probal to thinking and indeed the course

To win the Moor again? For ’tis most easy

Th’ inclining Desdemona to subdue

In any honest suit. She’s framed as fruitful

As the free elements. And then for her

To win the Moor, were to renounce his baptism,

All seals and symbols of redeemèd sin,

His soul is so enfettered to her love,

That she may make, unmake, do what she list,

Even as her appetite shall play the god

With his weak function. How am I then a villain

To counsel Cassio to this parallel course,

Directly to his good? Divinity of hell!

When devils will the blackest sins put on

They do suggest at first with heavenly shows

As I do now. For whiles this honest fool

Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune

And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor,

I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear:

That she repeals him for her body’s lust.

And by how much she strives to do him good

She shall undo her credit with the Moor.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch

And out of her own goodness make the net

That shall enmesh them all.

How now, Roderigo!

I do follow here in the chase not like a hound that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent, I have been tonight exceedingly well cudgeled, and I think the issue will be I shall have so much experience for my pains. And so, with no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice.

How poor are they that have not patience!

What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

Thou know’st we work by wit and not by witchcraft,

And wit depends on dilatory time.

Does’t not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee.

And thou, by that small hurt, hath cashiered Cassio.

Though other things grow fair against the sun,

Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.

Content thyself awhile. In troth, ’tis morning.

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.

Retire thee, go where thou art billeted.

Away, I say, thou shalt know more hereafter.

Nay, get thee gone.

Two things are to be done:

My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress.

I’ll set her on.

Myself, the while, to draw the Moor apart

And bring him jump when he may Cassio find

Soliciting his wife. Ay, that’s the way.

Dull not device by coldness and delay.

Masters, play here, I will content your pains.

Something that’s brief, and bid “Good morrow, general.”

Why masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i’ th’ nose thus?

How, sir? How?

Are these, I pray you, wind instruments?

Ay, marry, are they, sir.

Oh, thereby hangs a tail.

Whereby hangs a tale, sir?

Marry sir, by many a wind instrument that I know. But, masters, here’s money for you, and the general so likes your music that he desires you, for love’s sake, to make no more noise with it.

Well, sir, we will not.

If you have any music that may not be heard, to ’t again. But, as they say, to hear music the general does not greatly care.

We have none such, sir.

Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I’ll away. Go, vanish into air, away!

Dost thou hear, my honest friend?

No, I hear not your honest friend, I hear you.

Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There’s a poor piece of gold for thee. If the gentlewoman that attends the general’s wife be stirring, tell her there’s one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech. Wilt thou do this?

She is stirring, sir. If she will stir hither, I shall seem to notify unto her.

In happy time, Iago.

You have not been abed, then?

Why, no. The day had broke

Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago,

To send in to your wife. My suit to her

Is that she will to virtuous Desdemona

Procure me some access.

I’ll send her to you presently,

And I’ll devise a mean to draw the Moor

Out of the way, that your converse and business

May be more free.

I humbly thank you for’t.

I never knew a Florentine more kind and honest.

Good morrow, good Lieutenant. I am sorry

For your displeasure, but all will sure be well.

The general and his wife are talking of it,

And she speaks for you stoutly. The Moor replies

That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus

And great affinity, and that in wholesome wisdom

He might not but refuse you. But he protests he loves you

And needs no other suitor but his likings

To take the safest occasion by the front

To bring you in again.

Yet I beseech you,

If you think fit, or that it may be done,

Give me advantage of some brief discourse

With Desdemona alone.

Pray you come in.

I will bestow you where you shall have time

To speak your bosom freely.

I am much bound to you.

These letters give, Iago, to the pilot,

And by him do my duties to the senate.

That done, I will be walking on the works,

Repair there to me.

Well, my good lord, I’ll do ’t.

This fortification, gentlemen, shall we see ’t?

We’ll wait upon your lordship.

Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do

All my abilities in thy behalf.

Good madam, do. I warrant it grieves my husband

As if the cause were his.

Oh, that’s an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio,

But I will have my lord and you again

As friendly as you were.

Bounteous madam,

Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio,

He’s never anything but your true servant.

I know ’t, I thank you. You do love my lord.

You have known him long, and be you well assured

He shall in strangeness stand no farther off

Than in a polite distance.

Ay, but, lady,

That policy may either last so long,

Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet,

Or breed itself so out of circumstances,

That, I being absent and my place supplied,

My general will forget my love and service.

Do not doubt that. Before Emilia here

I give thee warrant of thy place. Assure thee,

If I do vow a friendship, I’ll perform it

To the last article. My lord shall never rest,

I’ll watch him tame and talk him out of patience.

His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift,

I’ll intermingle everything he does

With Cassio’s suit. Therefore be merry, Cassio,

For thy solicitor shall rather die

Than give thy cause away.

Madam, here comes my lord.

Madam, I’ll take my leave.

Why, stay and hear me speak.

Madam, not now. I am very ill at ease,

Unfit for mine own purposes.

Well, do your discretion.

Ha! I like not that.

What dost thou say?

Nothing, my lord, or if—I know not what.

Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?

Cassio, my lord? No, sure, I cannot think it

That he would steal away so guilty-like

Seeing you coming.

I do believe ’twas he.

How now, my lord?

I have been talking with a suitor here,

A man that languishes in your displeasure.

Who is ’t you mean?

Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord,

If I have any grace or power to move you

His present reconciliation take.

For if he be not one that truly loves you,

That errs in ignorance and not in cunning,

I have no judgment in an honest face.

I prithee, call him back.

Went he hence now?

Ay, sooth, so humbled

That he hath left part of his grief with me

To suffer with him. Good love, call him back.

Not now, sweet Desdemona. Some other time.

But shall ’t be shortly?

The sooner, sweet, for you.

Shall ’t be tonight at supper?

No, not tonight.

Tomorrow dinner, then?

I shall not dine at home,

I meet the captains at the citadel.

Why, then, tomorrow night, or Tuesday morn.

On Tuesday noon, or night, or Wednesday morn.

I prithee name the time, but let it not

Exceed three days. In faith, he’s penitent,

And yet his trespass, in our common reason

(Save that, they say, the wars must make example

Out of her best) is not, almost, a fault

T’ incur a private check. When shall he come?

Tell me, Othello. I wonder in my soul

What you would ask me that I should deny

Or stand so mamm’ring on. What? Michael Cassio

That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time,

When I have spoke of you dispraisingly,

Hath ta’en your part, to have so much to do

To bring him in? Trust me, I could do much—

Prithee, no more. Let him come when he will,

I will deny thee nothing.

Why, this is not a boon,

’Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves,

Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm,

Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit

To your own person. Nay, when I have a suit

Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed

It shall be full of poise and difficult weight

And fearful to be granted.

I will deny thee nothing!

Whereon I do beseech thee, grant me this,

To leave me but a little to myself.

Shall I deny you? No. Farewell, my lord.

Farewell, my Desdemona. I’ll come to thee straight.

Emilia, come.—Be as your fancies teach you.

Whate’er you be, I am obedient.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul

But I do love thee! And when I love thee not

Chaos is come again.

My noble lord—

What dost thou say, Iago?

Did Michael Cassio, when you wooed my lady,

Know of your love?

He did, from first to last.

Why dost thou ask?

But for a satisfaction of my thought,

No further harm.

Why of thy thought, Iago?

I did not think he had been acquainted with her.

Oh, yes, and went between us very oft.

Indeed?

Indeed? Ay, indeed! Discern’st thou aught in that?

Is he not honest?

Honest, my lord?

Honest, ay, honest.

My lord, for aught I know.

What dost thou think?

Think, my lord?

“Think, my lord?” Alas, thou echo’st me

As if there were some monster in thy thought

Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something.

I heard thee say even now thou lik’st not that

When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like?

And when I told thee he was of my counsel

Of my whole course of wooing, thou cried’st “Indeed?”

And didst contract and purse thy brow together

As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain

Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me

Show me thy thought.

My lord, you know I love you.

I think thou dost.

And for I know thou ’rt full of love and honesty

And weigh’st thy words before thou giv’st them breath,

Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more.

For such things in a false disloyal knave

Are tricks of custom, but in a man that’s just

They are close dilations, working from the heart,

That passion cannot rule.

For Michael Cassio,

I dare be sworn, I think, that he is honest.

I think so too.

Men should be what they seem,

Or those that be not, would they might seem none!

Certain, men should be what they seem.

Why then I think Cassio’s an honest man.

Nay, yet there’s more in this.

I prithee speak to me as to thy thinkings,

As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts

The worst of words.

Good my lord, pardon me,

Though I am bound to every act of duty

I am not bound to that all slaves are free to.

Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false,

As where’s that palace whereinto foul things

Sometimes intrude not? Who has that breast so pure

Wherein uncleanly apprehensions

Keep leets and law-days and in sessions sit

With meditations lawful?

Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago,

If thou but think’st him wronged and mak’st his ear

A stranger to thy thoughts.

I do beseech you,

Though I perchance am vicious in my guess,

As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague

To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy

Shapes faults that are not, that your wisdom,

From one that so imperfectly conceits,

Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble

Out of his scattering and unsure observance.

It were not for your quiet nor your good,

Nor for my manhood, honesty, and wisdom

To let you know my thoughts.

What dost thou mean?

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls.

Who steals my purse steals trash. ’Tis something, nothing:

’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands.

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him

And makes me poor indeed.

I’ll know thy thoughts.

You cannot, if my heart were in your hand,

Nor shall not, whilst ’tis in my custody.

Ha!

Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy!

It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock

The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss

Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger,

But, oh, what damnèd minutes tells he o’er

Who dotes, yet doubts— suspects, yet soundly loves!

Oh, misery!

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough,

But riches fineless is as poor as winter

To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend

From jealousy!

Why, why is this?

Think’st thou I’d make a life of jealousy,

To follow still the changes of the moon

With fresh suspicions? No! To be once in doubt

Is to be resolved. Exchange me for a goat

When I shall turn the business of my soul

To such exsufflicate and blowed surmises,

Matching thy inference. ’Tis not to make me jealous

To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,

Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances.

Where virtue is, these are more virtuous.

Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw

The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt,

For she had eyes and chose me. No, Iago,

I’ll see before I doubt, when I doubt, prove,

And on the proof there is no more but this:

Away at once with love or jealousy!

I am glad of this, for now I shall have reason

To show the love and duty that I bear you

With franker spirit. Therefore, as I am bound,

Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof.

Look to your wife, observe her well with Cassio.

Wear your eyes thus, not jealous nor secure.

I would not have your free and noble nature

Out of self-bounty be abused. Look to ’t.

I know our country disposition well.

In Venice they do let God see the pranks

They dare not show their husbands. Their best conscience

Is not to leave ’t undone, but keep’t unknown.

Dost thou say so?

She did deceive her father, marrying you,

And when she seemed to shake and fear your looks,

She loved them most.

And so she did.

Why, go to then.

She that, so young, could give out such a seeming,

To seel her father’s eyes up close as oak,

He thought ’twas witchcraft. But I am much to blame.

I humbly do beseech you of your pardon

For too much loving you.

I am bound to thee forever.

I see this hath a little dashed your spirits.

Not a jot, not a jot.

Trust me, I fear it has.

I hope you will consider what is spoke

Comes from my love. But I do see you’re moved.

I am to pray you not to strain my speech

To grosser issues nor to larger reach

Than to suspicion.

I will not.

Should you do so, my lord,

My speech should fall into such vile success

Which my thoughts aimed not at. Cassio’s my worthy friend—

My lord, I see you’re moved.

No, not much moved.

I do not think but Desdemona’s honest.

Long live she so. And long live you to think so.

And yet how nature, erring from itself—

Ay, there’s the point. As, to be bold with you,

Not to affect many proposèd matches

Of her own clime, complexion, and degree,

Whereto we see in all things nature tends—

Foh! One may smell in such a will most rank,

Foul disproportions, thoughts unnatural.

But—pardon me—I do not in position

Distinctly speak of her, though I may fear

Her will, recoiling to her better judgment,

May fall to match you with her country forms,

And happily repent.

Farewell, farewell.

If more thou dost perceive, let me know more.

Set on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago.

My lord, I take my leave. (going)

(aside) Why did I marry? This honest creature doubtless

Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.

(returns) My lord, I would I might entreat your honor

To scan this thing no farther. Leave it to time.

Although ’tis fit that Cassio have his place,

For sure, he fills it up with great ability,

Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile,

You shall by that perceive him and his means.

Note if your lady strain his entertainment

With any strong or vehement importunity.

Much will be seen in that. In the meantime,

Let me be thought too busy in my fears—

As worthy cause I have to fear I am—

And hold her free, I do beseech your honor.

Fear not my government.

I once more take my leave.

This fellow’s of exceeding honesty

And knows all quantities, with a learnèd spirit,

Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard,

Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings,

I’d whistle her off and let her down the wind

To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black

And have not those soft parts of conversation

That chamberers have, or for I am declined

Into the vale of years—yet that’s not much—

She’s gone, I am abused, and my relief

Must be to loathe her. Oh, curse of marriage

That we can call these delicate creatures ours

And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad

And live upon the vapor of a dungeon

Than keep a corner in the thing I love

For others’ uses. Yet ’tis the plague to great ones,

Prerogatived are they less than the base.

’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

Even then this forkèd plague is fated to us

When we do quicken. Look where she comes.

If she be false, heaven mocked itself.

I’ll not believe ’t.

How now, my dear Othello?

Your dinner, and the generous islanders

By you invited, do attend your presence.

I am to blame.

Why do you speak so faintly?

Are you not well?

I have a pain upon my forehead, here.

Why that’s with watching, ’twill away again.

Let me but bind it hard, within this hour

It will be well. (pulls out a handkerchief)

Your napkin is too little,

Let it alone.

Come, I’ll go in with you.

I am very sorry that you are not well.

(picks up the handkercheif)

I am glad I have found this napkin,

This was her first remembrance from the Moor.

My wayward husband hath a hundred times

Wooed me to steal it, but she so loves the token

(For he conjured her she should ever keep it)

That she reserves it evermore about her

To kiss and talk to. I’ll have the work ta’en out

And give ’t Iago. What he will do with it

Heaven knows, not I.

I nothing but to please his fantasy.

How now! What do you here alone?

Do not you chide. I have a thing for you.

A thing for me? It is a common thing—

Ha?

To have a foolish wife.

Oh, is that all? What will you give me now

For the same handkerchief?

What handkerchief?

What handkerchief?

Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona,

That which so often you did bid me steal.

Hast stolen it from her?

No, but she let it drop by negligence

And, to th’ advantage, I being here, took ’t up.

Look, here it is.

A good wench, give it me.

What will you do with ’t, that you have been so earnest

To have me filch it?

Why, what is that to you?

If it be not for some purpose of import,

Give ’t me again. Poor lady, she’ll run mad

When she shall lack it.

Be not acknown on ’t,

I have use for it. Go, leave me.

I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin

And let him find it. Trifles light as air

Are to the jealous confirmations strong

As proofs of holy writ. This may do something.

The Moor already changes with my poison.

Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons

Which at the first are scarce found to distaste,

But with a little act upon the blood

Burn like the mines of sulfur.

I did say so.

Look, where he comes. Not poppy nor mandragora

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep

Which thou owedst yesterday.

Ha! Ha! False to me?

Why, how now, general? No more of that.

Avaunt! Be gone! Thou hast set me on the rack.

I swear ’tis better to be much abused

Than but to know ’t a little.

How now, my lord!

What sense had I in her stol’n hours of lust?

I saw ’t not, thought it not, it harmed not me.

I slept the next night well, fed well, was free and merry.

I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips.

He that is robbed, not wanting what is stol’n,

Let him not know’t, and he’s not robbed at all.

I am sorry to hear this.

I had been happy if the general camp,

Pioneers and all, had tasted her sweet body,

So I had nothing known. Oh, now forever

Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!

Farewell the plumèd troops and the big wars

That makes ambition virtue! Oh, farewell!

Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,

The spirit-stirring drum, th’ ear-piercing fife,

The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!

And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats

The immortal Jove’s dead clamors counterfeit,

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone.

Is ’t possible, my lord?

Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore,

Be sure of it. Give me the ocular proof

Or by the worth of mine eternal soul

Thou hadst been better have been born a dog

Than answer my waked wrath!

Is ’t come to this?

Make me to see ’t, or at the least so prove it

That the probation bear no hinge nor loop

To hang a doubt on, or woe upon thy life!

My noble lord—

If thou dost slander her and torture me,

Never pray more. Abandon all remorse.

On horror’s head horrors accumulate,

Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed,

For nothing canst thou to damnation add

Greater than that.

Oh, grace! Oh, heaven forgive me!

Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense?

God buy you, take mine office. O wretched fool

That lov’st to make thine honesty a vice!

O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world,

To be direct and honest is not safe.

I thank you for this profit, and from hence

I’ll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence.

Nay, stay. Thou shouldst be honest.

I should be wise, for honesty’s a fool

And loses that it works for.

By the world,

I think my wife be honest and think she is not.

I think that thou art just and think thou art not.

I’ll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh

As Dian’s visage, is now begrimed and black

As mine own face. If there be cords or knives,

Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams,

I’ll not endure it. Would I were satisfied!

I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion.

I do repent me that I put it to you.

You would be satisfied?

Would? Nay, and I will.

And may, but how? How satisfied, my lord?

Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on,

Behold her topped?

Death and damnation! Oh!

It were a tedious difficulty, I think,

To bring them to that prospect. Damn them then,

If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster

More than their own! What then? How then?

What shall I say? Where’s satisfaction?

It is impossible you should see this,

Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,

As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross

As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say,

If imputation and strong circumstances

Which lead directly to the door of truth

Will give you satisfaction, you may have ’t.

Give me a living reason she’s disloyal.

I do not like the office.

But, sith I am entered in this cause so far,

Pricked to ’t by foolish honesty and love,

I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately

And, being troubled with a raging tooth,

I could not sleep. There are a kind of men

So loose of soul that in their sleeps will mutter

Their affairs. One of this kind is Cassio.

In sleep I heard him say “Sweet Desdemona,

Let us be wary, let us hide our loves.”

And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand,

Cry “O sweet creature!” and then kiss me hard,

As if he plucked up kisses by the roots

That grew upon my lips, lay his leg

Over my thigh, and sigh, and kiss, and then

Cry “Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!”

Oh, monstrous! Monstrous!

Nay, this was but his dream.

But this denoted a foregone conclusion.

’Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream.

And this may help to thicken other proofs

That do demonstrate thinly.

I’ll tear her all to pieces!

Nay, yet be wise, yet we see nothing done,

She may be honest yet. Tell me but this,

Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief

Spotted with strawberries in your wife’s hand?

I gave her such a one, ’twas my first gift.

I know not that, but such a handkerchief—

I am sure it was your wife’s—did I today

See Cassio wipe his beard with.

If it be that—

If it be that, or any that was hers,

It speaks against her with the other proofs.

Oh, that the slave had forty thousand lives!

One is too poor, too weak for my revenge.

Now do I see ’tis true. Look here, Iago,

All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.

’Tis gone.

Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell!

Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne

To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,

For ’tis of aspics’ tongues!

Yet be content.

Oh, blood, blood, blood!

Patience, I say. Your mind may change.

Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic sea,

Whose icy current and compulsive course

Ne’er keeps retiring ebb but keeps due on

To the Propontic and the Hellespont,

Even so my bloody thoughts with violent pace

Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love

Till that a capable and wide revenge

Swallow them up. Now, by yon marble heaven,

In the due reverence of a sacred vow

I here engage my words. (he kneels)

Do not rise yet.

Witness, you ever-burning lights above,

You elements that clip us round about,

Witness that here Iago doth give up

The execution of his wit, hands, heart,

To wronged Othello’s service. Let him command,

And to obey shall be in me remorse,

What bloody business ever.

I greet thy love

Not with vain thanks but with acceptance bounteous,

And will upon the instant put thee to ’t.

Within these three days let me hear thee say

That Cassio’s not alive.

My friend is dead,

’Tis done at your request. But let her live.

Damn her, lewd minx! Oh, damn her, damn her!

Come, go with me apart. I will withdraw

To furnish me with some swift means of death

For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.

I am your own for ever.

Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lies?

I dare not say he lies anywhere.

Why, man?

He’s a soldier, and for one to say a soldier lies, ’tis stabbing.

Go to. Where lodges he?

To tell you where he lodges is to tell you where I lie.

Can anything be made of this?

I know not where he lodges, and for me to devise a lodging and say he lies here, or he lies there, were to lie in mine own throat.

Can you inquire him out and be edified by report?

I will catechize the world for him, that is, make questions, and by them answer.

Seek him, bid him come hither. Tell him I have moved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will be well.

To do this is within the compass of man’s wit, and therefore I will attempt the doing it.

Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia?

I know not, madam.

Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse

Full of crusadoes. And but my noble Moor

Is true of mind and made of no such baseness

As jealous creatures are, it were enough

To put him to ill thinking.

Is he not jealous?

Who, he? I think the sun where he was born

Drew all such humors from him.

Look where he comes.

I will not leave him now till Cassio

Be called to him.—How is ’t with you, my lord?

Well, my good lady.—(aside) Oh, hardness to dissemble!—

How do you, Desdemona?

Well, my good lord.

Give me your hand. This hand is moist, my lady.

It hath felt no age nor known no sorrow.

This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart.

Hot, hot, and moist. This hand of yours requires

A sequester from liberty, fasting, and prayer,

Much castigation, exercise devout,

For here’s a young and sweating devil here,

That commonly rebels. ’Tis a good hand,

A frank one.

You may indeed say so,

For ’twas that hand that gave away my heart.

A liberal hand. The hearts of old gave hands,

But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.

I cannot speak of this. Come now, your promise.

What promise, chuck?

I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you.

I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me.

Lend me thy handkerchief.

Here, my lord.

That which I gave you.

I have it not about me.

Not?

No, indeed, my lord.

That’s a fault. That handkerchief

Did an Egyptian to my mother give,

She was a charmer and could almost read

The thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it

’Twould make her amiable and subdue my father

Entirely to her love, but if she lost it

Or made gift of it, my father’s eye

Should hold her loathèd and his spirits should hunt

After new fancies. She, dying, gave it me

And bid me, when my fate would have me wived,

To give it her. I did so, and take heed on ’t,

Make it a darling like your precious eye.

To lose ’t or give ’t away were such perdition

As nothing else could match.

Is ’t possible?

’Tis true. There’s magic in the web of it.

A sibyl, that had numbered in the world

The sun to course two hundred compasses,

In her prophetic fury sewed the work.

The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk,

And it was dyed in mummy which the skillful

Conserved of maidens’ hearts.

Indeed? Is ’t true?

Most veritable, therefore look to ’t well.

Then would to Heaven that I had never seen ’t!

Ha! Wherefore?

Why do you speak so startingly and rash?

Is ’t lost? Is ’t gone? Speak, is ’t out o’ th’ way?

Bless us!

Say you?

It is not lost, but what and if it were?

How!

I say, it is not lost.

Fetch ’t, let me see ’t.

Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now.

This is a trick to put me from my suit.

Pray you, let Cassio be received again.

Fetch me the handkerchief—my mind misgives.

Come, come,

You’ll never meet a more sufficient man.

The handkerchief!

A man that all his time

Hath founded his good fortunes on your love,

Shared dangers with you—

The handkerchief!

In sooth, you are to blame.

Away!

Is not this man jealous?

I ne’er saw this before.

Sure, there’s some wonder in this handkerchief,

I am most unhappy in the loss of it.

’Tis not a year or two shows us a man.

They are all but stomachs, and we all but food.

To eat us hungerly, and when they are full,

They belch us. Look you, Cassio and my husband!

There is no other way. ’Tis she must do ’t,

And, lo, the happiness! Go and importune her.

How now, good Cassio, what’s the news with you?

Madam, my former suit. I do beseech you

That by your virtuous means I may again

Exist, and be a member of his love

Whom I, with all the office of my heart

Entirely honor. I would not be delayed.

If my offence be of such mortal kind

That nor my service past, nor present sorrows,

Nor purposed merit in futurity,

Can ransom me into his love again,

But to know so must be my benefit.

So shall I clothe me in a forced content,

And shut myself up in some other course,

To fortune’s alms.

Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio,

My advocation is not now in tune.

My lord is not my lord, nor should I know him

Were he in favor as in humor altered.

So help me every spirit sanctified

As I have spoken for you all my best

And stood within the blank of his displeasure

For my free speech. You must awhile be patient.

What I can do I will, and more I will

Than for myself I dare. Let that suffice you.

Is my lord angry?

He went hence but now,

And certainly in strange unquietness.

Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon

When it hath blown his ranks into the air

And, like the devil, from his very arm

Puffed his own brother—and is he angry?

Something of moment then, I will go meet him.

There’s matter in ’t indeed, if he be angry.

I prithee, do so.

Something, sure, of state,

Either from Venice, or some unhatched practice

Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,

Hath puddled his clear spirit, and in such cases

Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things,

Though great ones are their object. ’Tis even so,

For let our finger ache and it endues

Our other healthful members even to that sense

Of pain. Nay, we must think men are not gods,

Nor of them look for such observances

As fit the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia,

I was, unhandsome warrior as I am,

Arraigning his unkindness with my soul,

But now I find I had suborned the witness,

And he’s indicted falsely.

Pray heaven it be

State matters, as you think, and no conception

Nor no jealous toy concerning you.

Alas the day! I never gave him cause.

But jealous souls will not be answered so.

They are not ever jealous for the cause,

But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monster

Begot upon itself, born on itself.

Heaven keep the monster from Othello’s mind!

Lady, amen.

I will go seek him.—Cassio, walk hereabout.

If I do find him fit, I’ll move your suit

And seek to effect it to my uttermost.

I humbly thank your ladyship.

Save you, friend Cassio!

What make you from home?

How is ’t with you, my most fair Bianca?

Indeed, sweet love, I was coming to your house.

And I was going to your lodging, Cassio.

What, keep a week away? Seven days and nights?

Eight score eight hours? And lovers’ absent hours

More tedious than the dial eightscore times!

Oh weary reckoning!

Pardon me, Bianca,

I have this while with leaden thoughts been pressed,

But I shall, in a more continuate time,

Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca,

(giving her DESDEMONA’s handkerchief)

Take me this work out.

O Cassio, whence came this?

This is some token from a newer friend!

To the felt absence now I feel a cause.

Is ’t come to this? Well, well.

Go to, woman,

Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth

From whence you have them. You are jealous now

That this is from some mistress, some remembrance.

No, in good troth, Bianca.

Why, whose is it?

I know not neither, I found it in my chamber.

I like the work well. Ere it be demanded,

As like enough it will, I would have it copied.

Take it and do ’t, and leave me for this time.

Leave you! Wherefore?

I do attend here on the general

And think it no addition, nor my wish,

To have him see me womaned.

Why, I pray you?

Not that I love you not.

But that you do not love me.

I pray you bring me on the way a little

And say if I shall see you soon at night.

’Tis but a little way that I can bring you,

For I attend here. But I’ll see you soon.

’Tis very good. I must be circumstanced.

Will you think so?

Think so, Iago?

What,

To kiss in private?

An unauthorized kiss!

Or to be naked with her friend in bed

An hour or more, not meaning any harm?

Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm!

It is hypocrisy against the devil.

They that mean virtuously, and yet do so,

The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.

So they do nothing, ’tis a venial slip.

But if I give my wife a handkerchief—

What then?

Why then ’tis hers, my lord, and, being hers,

She may, I think, bestow ’t on any man.

She is protectress of her honor too.

May she give that?

Her honor is an essence that’s not seen,

They have it very oft that have it not.

But for the handkerchief—

By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it.

Thou saidst—Oh, it comes o’er my memory,

As doth the raven o’er the infectious house,

Boding to all—he had my handkerchief.

Ay, what of that?

That’s not so good now.

What if I had said I had seen him do you wrong?

Or heard him say—as knaves be such abroad,

Who having, by their own importunate suit,

Or voluntary dotage of some mistress,

Convincèd or supplied them, cannot choose

But they must blab—

Hath he said any thing?

He hath, my lord, but be you well assured

No more than he’ll unswear.

What hath he said?

Why, that he did—I know not what he did.

What? what?

Lie—

With her?

With her, on her, what you will.

Lie with her? lie on her? We say “lie on her” when they belie her! Lie with her—that’s fulsome. Handkerchief—confessions—handkerchief! To confess, and be hanged for his labor. First to be hanged, and then to confess—I tremble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction. It is not words that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. Is ’t possible? Confess!—Handkerchief!—Oh, devil!—

Work on, My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught,

And many worthy and chaste dames even thus,

All guiltless, meet reproach.—What, ho! My lord!

My lord, I say! Othello!

How now, Cassio!

What’s the matter?

My lord is fall’n into an epilepsy.

This is his second fit. He had one yesterday.

Rub him about the temples.

No, forbear.

The lethargy must have his quiet course.

If not, he foams at mouth and by and by

Breaks out to savage madness. Look, he stirs.

Do you withdraw yourself a little while,

He will recover straight. When he is gone

I would on great occasion speak with you.

How is it, general? Have you not hurt your head?

Dost thou mock me?

I mock you not, by heaven.

Would you would bear your fortune like a man!

A hornèd man’s a monster and a beast.

There’s many a beast then in a populous city,

And many a civil monster.

Did he confess it?

Good sir, be a man,

Think every bearded fellow that’s but yoked

May draw with you. There’s millions now alive

That nightly lie in those unproper beds

Which they dare swear peculiar. Your case is better.

Oh, ’tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock,

To lip a wanton in a secure couch,

And to suppose her chaste. No, let me know,

And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.

Oh, thou art wise! ’Tis certain.

Stand you awhile apart,

Confine yourself but in a patient list.

Whilst you were here o’erwhelmèd with your grief—

A passion most resulting such a man—

Cassio came hither. I shifted him away

And laid good ’scuses upon your ecstasy,

Bade him anon return and here speak with me,

The which he promised. Do but encave yourself,

And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns

That dwell in every region of his face.

For I will make him tell the tale anew

Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when

He hath, and is again to cope your wife.

I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience,

Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen,

And nothing of a man.

Dost thou hear, Iago?

I will be found most cunning in my patience,

But—dost thou hear?—most bloody.

That’s not amiss,

But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw?

Now will I question Cassio of Bianca,

A huswife that by selling her desires

Buys herself bread and clothes. It is a creature

That dotes on Cassio, as ’tis the strumpet’s plague

To beguile many and be beguiled by one.

He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain

From the excess of laughter. Here he comes.

As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad.

And his unbookish jealousy must construe

Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures, and light behavior

Quite in the wrong.—How do you now, lieutenant?

The worser that you give me the addition

Whose want even kills me.

Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on ’t.

Now if this suit lay in Bianca’s power

How quickly should you speed!

Alas, poor caitiff!

Look how he laughs already!

I never knew woman love man so.

Alas, poor rogue, I think indeed she loves me.

Now he denies it faintly, and laughs it out.

Do you hear, Cassio?

Now he importunes him

To tell it o’er. Go to, well said, well said.

She gives it out that you shall marry her.

Do you intend it?

Ha, ha, ha!

Do ye triumph, Roman? Do you triumph?

I marry her! What? A customer? Prithee bear some charity to my wit. Do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha!

So, so, so, so! They laugh that win!

Why the cry goes that you shall marry her.

Prithee say true!

I am a very villain else.

Have you scored me? Well.

This is the monkey’s own giving out. She is persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and flattery, not out of my promise.

Iago beckons me. Now he begins the story.

She was here even now. She haunts me in every place. I was the other day talking on the sea-bank with certain Venetians, and thither comes the bauble and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck—

Crying “O dear Cassio!” as it were. His gesture imports it.

So hangs and lolls and weeps upon me, so shakes, and pulls me! Ha, ha, ha!

Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. Oh, I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall throw it to.

Well, I must leave her company.

Before me! Look, where she comes.

’Tis such another fitchew. Marry, a perfumed one.—

What do you mean by this haunting of me?

Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now? I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the work? A likely piece of work, that you should find it in your chamber, and not know who left it there! This is some minx’s token, and I must take out the work? There, give it your hobby-horse. Wheresoever you had it, I’ll take out no work on ’t.

How now, my sweet Bianca! How now, how now?

By heaven, that should be my handkerchief!

If you’ll come to supper tonight, you may. If you will not, come when you are next prepared for.

After her, after her.

I must, she’ll rail in the street else.

Will you sup there?

Yes, I intend so.

Well, I may chance to see you, for I would very fain speak with you.

Prithee come, will you?

Go to! Say no more.

(advancing) How shall I murder him, Iago?

Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice?

O Iago!

And did you see the handkerchief?

Was that mine?

Yours by this hand. And to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife! She gave it him, and he hath given it his whore.

I would have him nine years a-killing. A fine woman! A fair woman! A sweet woman!

Nay, you must forget that.

Ay, let her rot and perish and be damned tonight, for she shall not live. No, my heart is turned to stone. I strike it and it hurts my hand. Oh, the world hath not a sweeter creature, she might lie by an emperor’s side and command him tasks.

Nay, that’s not your way.

Hang her! I do but say what she is. So delicate with her needle, an admirable musician. Oh, she will sing the savageness out of a bear! Of so high and plenteous wit and invention!

She’s the worse for all this.

Oh, a thousand thousand times—and then of so gentle a condition!

Ay, too gentle.

Nay, that’s certain. But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!

If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend, for if it touch not you it comes near nobody.

I will chop her into messes! Cuckold me?

Oh, ’tis foul in her.

With mine officer!

That’s fouler.

Get me some poison, Iago, this night. I’ll not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unprovide my mind again—This night, Iago!

Do it not with poison. Strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated.

Good, good, the justice of it pleases! Very good!

And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker. You shall hear more by midnight.

Excellent good.

What trumpet is that same?

I warrant something from Venice. ’Tis Lodovico, this, comes from the duke. See, your wife’s with him.

Save you, worthy general!

With all my heart, sir.

The duke and senators of Venice greet you.

I kiss the instrument of their pleasures.

And what’s the news, good cousin Lodovico?

I am very glad to see you, signior. Welcome to Cyprus.

I thank you. How does lieutenant Cassio?

Lives, sir.

Cousin, there’s fall’n between him and my lord

An unkind breach, but you shall make all well.

Are you sure of that?

My lord?

(reads) “This fail you not to do, as you will—”

He did not call, he’s busy in the paper.

Is there division ’twixt my lord and Cassio?

A most unhappy one. I would do much

T’ atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio.

Fire and brimstone!

My lord?

Are you wise?

What, is he angry?

Maybe the letter moved him,

For, as I think, they do command him home,

Deputing Cassio in his government.

Trust me, I am glad on ’t.

Indeed!

My lord?

I am glad to see you mad.

Why, sweet Othello—

(striking her) Devil!

I have not deserved this.

My lord, this would not be believed in Venice,

Though I should swear I saw ’t. ’Tis very much.

Make her amends, she weeps.

Oh, devil, devil!

If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,

Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.

Out of my sight!

I will not stay to offend you.

Truly, an obedient lady.

I do beseech your lordship, call her back.

Mistress!

My lord?

What would you with her, sir?

Who, I, my lord?

Ay, you did wish that I would make her turn.

Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on,

And turn again. And she can weep, sir, weep.

And she’s obedient, as you say, obedient,

Very obedient.—Proceed you in your tears.—

Concerning this, sir—Oh, well-painted passion!—

I am commanded home.—Get you away,

I’ll send for you anon.—Sir, I obey the mandate

And will return to Venice.—Hence, avaunt!

Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight

I do entreat that we may sup together.

You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys!

Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate

Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature

Whom passion could not shake? Whose solid virtue

The shot of accident nor dart of chance

Could neither graze nor pierce?

He is much changed.

Are his wits safe? Is he not light of brain?

He’s that he is. I may not breathe my censure

What he might be. If what he might he is not,

I would to heaven he were!

What? Strike his wife?

’Faith, that was not so well. Yet would I knew

That stroke would prove the worst!

Is it his use?

Or did the letters work upon his blood

And new-create his fault?

Alas, alas!

It is not honesty in me to speak

What I have seen and known. You shall observe him,

And his own courses will denote him so

That I may save my speech. Do but go after

And mark how he continues.

I am sorry that I am deceived in him.

You have seen nothing then?

Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect.

Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together.

But then I saw no harm, and then I heard

Each syllable that breath made up between them.

What, did they never whisper?

Never, my lord.

Nor send you out o’ th’ way?

Never.

To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing?

Never, my lord.

That’s strange.

I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest,

Lay down my soul at stake. If you think other

Remove your thought, it doth abuse your bosom.

If any wretch have put this in your head

Let heaven requite it with the serpent’s curse

For if she be not honest, chaste, and true

There’s no man happy. The purest of their wives

Is foul as slander.

Bid her come hither. Go.

She says enough, yet she’s a simple bawd

That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore,

A closet, lock and key, of villainous secrets.

And yet she’ll kneel and pray, I have seen her do ’t.

My lord, what is your will?

Pray, chuck, come hither.

What is your pleasure?

Let me see your eyes.

Look in my face.

What horrible fancy’s this?

(to EMILIA) Some of your function, mistress,

Leave procreants alone and shut the door.

Cough or cry “hem” if any body come.

Your mystery, your mystery! Nay, dispatch!

Upon my knee, what doth your speech import?

I understand a fury in your words,

But not the words.

Why, what art thou?

Your wife, my lord. Your true and loyal wife.