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All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head;
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience: but (alas!) to make me
A fixed figure, for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at,-
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner'd* up my heart;
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads
To knot and gender in !-turn thy complexion there!
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubim ;
Ay, there, look grim as hell!
Des. I hope, my noble lord esteems me honest.
Oth. O, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,
Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,
That the sense aches at thee.--'Would, thou hadst
ne'er been born!
Des. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed? Oth. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write whore upon? What committed! Committed!-0 thou public commoner!
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds.-What committed!
Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks;
The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it: What committed!-
By heaven, you do me wrong.
Oth. Are not you a strumpet?
If to preserve this vessel for my lord,
From any other foul unlawful touch,
Be-not to be a strumpet, I am none.
Oth. What, not a whore?
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice,
That married with Othello.
O, good Iago,
What shall I do to win my lord again?
Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel:-
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought, or actual deed;
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did,
And ever will,-though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement,-love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love.
If heaven would make me such another world
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite*,
I'd not have sold her for it.
SCENE. A Bedchamber: DESDEMONA in bed asleep.
A light burning.
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,-
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!-
It is the cause.-Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of her's than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Takes off his Sword.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light*;
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me:-but once put out thine,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat,
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd thy
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needs must wither:-I'll smell it on the tree.
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword!-One more, one more.-
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
* i. e. The light of life.
And love thee after:-One more, and this the last:
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears: This sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes, where it doth love.
HIS CONFUSION AFTER THE MURDER.
Yes; 'tis Emilia:-by and by. She's dead. 'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death: The noise was high.-Ha! no more moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? Were't good? I think, she stirs again:-No.-What's the best? If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife: My wife! my wife! what wife?-I have no wife: O, insupportable! O heavy hour!
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon; and that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration.
Behold! I have a weapon;
A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day,
That, with this little arm, and this good sword,
I have made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop:-But, O vain boast!
Who can control his fate? 'tis not so now.-
Be not afraid; though you do see me weapon'd;
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismay'd? 'tis a lost fear;
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires!-Where should Othello go?-
Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench!
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt*,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?
Even like thy chastity.-
O, cursed, cursed slave!-Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur!
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!-
O, Desdemona! Desdemona! dead!
HIS SPEECH BEFORE HIS DEATH.
Soft, you; a word or two, before you go.
I have done the state some service, and they know it;
No more of that:-I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak
Of one, that lov'd not wisely, but too well;
Of one, not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one, whose hand,
Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away,
Richer than all his tribe; of one, whose subdu'd eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinal gum:-Set you down this:
And say, besides,-that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk
Beat a Venetian, and traduc'd the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him-thus.
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs;
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.