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Poor Desdemona: if ever a tragedy's heroine was wrongly cast in the role of the scarlet woman it is certainly she, who even pays the ultimate price for an adultery she never committed. But does that make her a victim? Certainly not so in the beginning, when she not only puts her love for Othello above her father's prohibition to marry "the Moor," but also boldly defends her attachment coram publico. Yet, as the tragedy progresses, she seems to get weaker and weaker, ultimately even taking the blame for her own murder and forgiving her husband for committing this act. So what's happening to her? I think in a way her problem is the same as that which drives the entire play, and which keeps Othello from realising what Iago is truly up to until it is too late: a complete failure of communication, whose source is, in no small part, the general's own impulsive jealousy and stubborn refusal to listen to reason (alas, indeed, to listen to anybody but "honest" Iago, of all people); an attitude that can fairly make you wonder how he can possibly be such a successful leader in wartime, because battlefield tactics arguably demand at least as much circumspection and consideration as every day communication between husband and wife, and between friends and family or within a civilian administration – the very skills which Othello so utterly seems to lack. Thus, it is Desdemona's gradual loss of access to her husband's understanding – tragically accelerated by her graceful and forthright arguments in favour of Cassio, the very man with whom Othello wrongly suspects her to have been unfaithful – which finally brings her down, however much she may protest her guiltlessness to the last; and not coincidentally she is smothered with her wedding sheets: the very symbols of the marriage that has ruined her life.
My daughter! O, 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 preposterously 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.
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 blest 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 broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnish'd 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
Blush'd at herself; and she – in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, everything –
To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on!
It is judgement maim'd 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 certain 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 forced 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 question'd me the story of my life
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass'd.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days
To the very moment that he bade me tell it:
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,
Of being taken by the insolent foe
And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence
And portance in my travels' history;
Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,
It was my hint to speak – such was the process –
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence,
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'ld 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 suffer'd. 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 wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd 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 pass'd,
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 show'd
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
Into your favor.
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 mockery makes.
The robb'd 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 pierced through the ear.
I humbly beseech you, proceed to the 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 boisterous
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.
If you please,
Be't at her father's.
I'll not have it so.
Nor I.
Nor I. I would not 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
To 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 voices.
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 me 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
For she is with me. No, when light-wing'd toys
Of feather'd Cupid seel with wanton dullness
My speculative and officed instruments,
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. The affair cries haste,
And speed must answer't: you must hence tonight.
Tonight, my lord?
This night.
With all my heart.
At nine i' the morning here we'll meet again.
Othello, leave some officer behind,
And he shall our commission bring to you,
With 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 everyone.
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 matters and direction,
To spend with thee. We must obey the time.
Iago!
What say'st thou, noble heart?
What will I do, thinkest 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.
O 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 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 preposterous 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 that Desdemona should long
continue her love to the Moor – put money in thy purse – nor he his
to her. It was a violent commencement, 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 acerb as the coloquintida. She must change for youth;
when she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her
choice. She must have change, she must; 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 a 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! It is 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 retell 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' the 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; I'll go sell all my land.
Thus do I ever make my fool my purse;
For I mine own gain'd 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 has 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 the nose
As asses are.
I have't. It is engender'd. Hell and night
Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light.
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.
O, 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 politic 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.
Nay, 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 judgement 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, on 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 their best – is not almost a fault
To 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 mammering on. What? Michael Cassio,
That came awooing 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.
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 call'd to him.
How is't with you, my lord?
Well, my good lady.
O, hardness to dissemble!
How do you, Desdemona?
Well, my good lord.
Give me your hand. This hand is moist, my lady.
It yet has 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, faith, 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 a gift of it, my father's eye
Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt
After new fancies. She dying gave it me,
And bid me, when my fate would have me wive,
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 number'd in the world
The sun to course two hundred compasses,
In her prophetic fury sew'd the work;
The worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk,
And it was dyed in mummy which the skillful
Conserved of maiden's hearts.
Indeed! is't true?
Most veritable; therefore look to't well.
Then would to God that I had never seen't!
Ha! wherefore?
Why do you speak so startingly and rash?
Is't lost? is't gone? speak, is it out o' the way?
Heaven bless us!
Say you?
It is not lost; but what an if it were?
How?
I say, it is not lost.
Fetch't, let me see it.
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!
I pray, talk me of Cassio.
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.
God save the 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 breech; but you shall make all well.
Are you sure of that?
My lord?
"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
To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio.
Fire and brimstone!
My lord?
Are you wise?
What, is he angry?
May be the letter moved him;
For, as I think, they do command him home,
Deputing Cassio in his government.
By my troth, I am glad on't.
Indeed!
My lord?
I am glad to see you mad.
Why, sweet Othello?
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.
O 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 – O 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!
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?
Some of your function, mistress,
Leave procreants alone and shut the door;
Cough, or cry "hem," if anybody come.
Your mystery, your mystery; nay, dispatch.
Upon my knees, 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.
Come, swear it, damn thyself;
Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves
Should fear to seize thee. Therefore be double-damn'd;
Swear thou art honest.
Heaven doth truly know it.
Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
To whom, my lord? with whom? how am I false?
O Desdemona! Away! away! away!
Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep?
Am I the motive of these tears, my lord?
If haply you my father do suspect
An instrument of this your calling back,
Lay not your blame on me. If you have lost him,
Why, I have lost him too.
Had it pleased heaven
To try me with affliction, had they rain'd
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 place 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 cherubin,
Ay, there, look grim as hell!
I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.
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!
Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?
Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write "whore" upon? What committed?
Committed? O 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?
Impudent strumpet!
By heaven, you do me wrong.
Are not you a strumpet?
No, as I am a Christian.
If to preserve this vessel for my lord
From any other foul unlawful touch
Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.
What, not a whore?
No, as I shall be saved.
Is't possible?
O, heaven forgive us!
I cry you mercy then;
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice
That married with Othello.
You, mistress,
That have the office opposite to Saint Peter,
And keep the gate of hell!
You, you, ay, you!
We have done our course; there's money for your pains.
I pray you, turn the key, and keep our counsel.
Alas, what does this gentleman conceive?
How do you, madam? How do you, my good lady?
Faith, half asleep.
Good madam, what's the matter with my lord?
With who?
Why, with my lord, madam.
Who is thy lord?
He that is yours, sweet lady.
I have none. Do not talk to me, Emilia;
I cannot weep, nor answer have I none
But what should go by water. Prithee, tonight
Lay on my bed my wedding sheets. Remember,
And call thy husband hither.
Here's a change indeed!
'Tis meet I should be used so, very meet.
How have I been behaved, that he might stick
The small'st opinion on my least misuse?
What is your pleasure, madam? How is't with you?
I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes
Do it with gentle means and easy tasks.
He might have chid me so, for in good faith,
I am a child to chiding.
What's the matter, lady?
Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her,
Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,
As true hearts cannot bear.
Am I that name, Iago?
What name, fair lady?
Such as she says my lord did say I was.
He call'd her whore; a beggar in his drink
Could not have laid such terms upon his callet.
Why did he so?
I do not know; I am sure I am none such.
Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day!
Hath she forsook so many noble matches,
Her father and her country and her friends,
To be call'd whore? Would it not make one weep?
It is my wretched fortune.
Beshrew him for't!
How comes this trick upon him?
Nay, heaven doth know.
I will be hang'd, if some eternal villain,
Some busy and insinuating rogue,
Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office,
Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else.
Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible.
If any such there be, heaven pardon him!
A halter pardon him! And hell gnaw his bones!
Why should he call her whore? Who keeps her company?
What place? What time? What form? What likelihood?
The Moor's abused by some most villainous knave,
Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow.
O heaven, that such companions thou'ldst unfold,
And put in every honest hand a whip
To lash the rascals naked through the world
Even from the east to the west!
Speak within door.
O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was
That turn'd your wit the seamy side without,
And made you to suspect me with the Moor.
You are a fool; go to.
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. I cannot say "whore."
It doth abhor me now I speak the word;
To do the act that might the addition earn
Not the world's mass of vanity could make me.
I pray you, be content; 'tis but his humor:
The business of the state does him offense,
And he does chide with you.
If 'twere no other –
'Tis but so, I warrant.
Hark, how these instruments summon to supper!
The messengers of Venice stay the meat.
Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well.
How goes it now? He looks gentler than he did.
He says he will return incontinent.
He hath commanded me to go to bed,
And bade me to dismiss you.
Dismiss me?
It was his bidding; therefore, good Emilia,
Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu.
We must not now displease him.
I would you had never seen him!
So would not I. My love doth so approve him,
That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns –
Prithee, unpin me – have grace and favor in them.
I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.
All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds!
If I do die before thee, prithee shroud me
In one of those same sheets.
Come, come, you talk.
My mother had a maid call'd Barbary;
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad
And did forsake her. She had a song of "willow";
An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,
And she died singing it. That song tonight
Will not go from my mind; I have much to do
But to go hang my head all at one side
And sing it like poor Barbary. Prithee, dispatch.
Shall I go fetch your nightgown?
No, unpin me here.
This Lodovico is a proper man.
A very handsome man.
He speaks well.
I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to
Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.
"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones –"
Lay be these –
"Sing willow, willow, willow –"
Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon –
"Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve –"
Nay, that's not next. Hark, who is't that knocks?
It's the wind.
"I call'd my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow.
If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men –"
So get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch;
Doth that bode weeping?
'Tis neither here nor there.
I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men!
Dost thou in conscience think – tell me, Emilia –
That there be women do abuse their husbands
In such gross kind?
There be some such, no question.
Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?
Why, would not you?
No, by this heavenly light!
Nor I neither by this heavenly light; I might do't as well
i' the dark.
Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?
The world's a huge thing; it is a great price
For a small vice.
In troth, I think thou wouldst not.
In troth, I think I should, and undo't when I had done.
Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring, nor for
measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any
petty exhibition; but, for the whole world – why, who would not
make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch? I should
venture purgatory for't.
Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong
For the whole world.
Why, the wrong is but a wrong i' the world; and having the
world for your labor, 'tis a wrong in your own world, and you
might quickly make it right.
I do not think there is any such woman.
Yes, a dozen, and as many to the vantage as would store the
world they played for.
But I do think it is their husbands' faults
If wives do fall; say that they slack their duties
And pour our treasures into foreign laps,
Or else break out in peevish jealousies,
Throwing restraint upon us, or say they strike us,
Or scant our former having in despite,
Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,
Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know
Their wives have sense like them; they see and smell
And have their palates both for sweet and sour,
As husbands have. What is it that they do
When they change us for others? Is it sport?
I think it is. And doth affection breed it?
I think it doth. Is't frailty that thus errs?
It is so too. And have not we affections,
Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?
Then let them use us well; else let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.
Good night, good night. Heaven me such uses send,
Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend!
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 hers than snow
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
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 thy light,
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 the rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It must needs 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,
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. She wakes.
Who's there? Othello?
Ay, Desdemona.
Will you come to bed, my lord?
Have you pray'd tonight, Desdemona?
Ay, my lord.
If you bethink yourself of any crime
Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace,
Solicit for it straight.
Alas, my lord, what may you mean by that?
Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by.
I would not kill thy unprepared spirit.
No, heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul.
Talk you of killing?
Ay, I do.
Then heaven have mercy on me!
Amen, with all my heart!
If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.
Hum!
And yet I fear you, for you are fatal then
When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I know not,
Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear.
Think on thy sins.
They are loves I bear to you.
Ay, and for that thou diest.
That death's unnatural that kills for loving.
Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?
Some bloody passion shakes your very frame.
These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,
They do not point on me.
Peace, and be still!
I will so. What's the matter?
That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee
Thou gavest to Cassio.
No, by my life and soul!
Send for the man, and ask him.
Sweet soul, take heed,
Take heed of perjury; thou are on thy deathbed.
Ay, but not yet to die.
Yes, presently:
Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin,
For to deny each article with oath
Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception
That I do groan withal. Thou art to die.
Then Lord have mercy on me!
I say, amen.
And have you mercy too! I never did
Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio
But with such general warranty of heaven
As I might love. I never gave him token.
By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand.
O perjured woman! Thou dost stone my heart,
And makest me call what I intend to do
A murther, which I thought a sacrifice.
I saw the handkerchief.
He found it then;
I never gave it him. Send for him hither;
Let him confess a truth.
He hath confess'd.
What, my lord?
That he hath used thee.
How? unlawfully?
Ay.
He will not say so.
No, his mouth is stopp'd;
Honest Iago hath ta'en order for't.
O, my fear interprets! What, is he dead?
Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all.
Alas, he is betray'd, and I undone!
Out, strumpet! Weep'st thou for him to my face?
O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!
Down, strumpet!
Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight!
Nay, if you strive –
But half an hour!
Being done, there is no pause.
But while I say one prayer!
It is too late.
My lord, my lord! What, ho! my lord, my lord!
What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead?
I that am cruel am yet merciful;
I would not have thee linger in thy pain.
So, so.
What, ho! my lord, my lord!
Who's there?
O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you!
Yes, 'tis Emilia. By and by. She's dead.
'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death.
The noise was here. Ha! no more moving?
Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were't good?
I think she stirs again. No. What's best to do?
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.
I do beseech you
That I may speak with you, O, good my lord!
I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia.
Soft, by and by. Let me the curtains draw.
Where art thou?
What's the matter with thee now?
O, my good lord, yonder's foul murthers done!
What, now?
But now, my lord.
It is the very error of the moon;
She comes more nearer earth than she was wont
And makes men mad.
Cassio, my lord, hath kill'd a young Venetian
Call'd Roderigo.
Roderigo kill'd?
And Cassio kill'd?
No, Cassio is not kill'd.
Not Cassio kill'd! Then murther's out of tune,
And sweet revenge grows harsh.
O, falsely, falsely murther'd!
Alas, what cry is that?
That? what?
Out, and alas! That was my lady's voice.
Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again!
Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak!
A guiltless death I die.
O, who hath done this deed?
Nobody; I myself. Farewell;
Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!
Why, how should she be murther'd?
Alas, who knows?
You heard her say herself, it was not I.
She said so; I must needs report the truth.
She's like a liar gone to burning hell;
'Twas I that kill'd her.
O, the more angel she,
And you the blacker devil!
She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore.
Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil.
She was false as water.
Thou art rash as fire, to say
That she was false. O, she was heavenly true!
Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else.
O, I were damn'd beneath all depth in hell,
But that I did proceed upon just grounds
To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all.
My husband?
Thy husband.
That she was false to wedlock?
Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true,
If heaven would make me such another world
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,
I'ld not have sold her for it.
My husband?
Ay, 'twas he that told me first.
An honest man he is, and hates the slime
That sticks on filthy deeds.
My husband?
What needs this iteration, woman? I say thy husband.
O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love!
My husband say that she was false!
He, woman;
I say thy husband. Dost understand the word?
My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago.
If he say so, may his pernicious soul
Rot half a grain a day! He lies to the heart.
She was too fond of her most filthy bargain.
Ha!
Do thy worst;
This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven
Than thou wast worthy her.
Peace, you were best.
Thou hast not half that power to do me harm
As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt!
As ignorant as dirt! Thou hast done a deed –
I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known,
Though I lost twenty lives. Help! help, ho! help!
The Moor hath kill'd my mistress! Murther, murther!
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