Othello, William Shakespeare [best books for students to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: William Shakespeare
Book online «Othello, William Shakespeare [best books for students to read .TXT] 📗». Author William Shakespeare
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.
’Tis gone.
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell!
Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
For ’tis of aspics’ tongues! Iago Yet be content. Othello O, blood, blood, blood! Iago Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may change. Othello
Never, Iago: Like to the Pontic sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne’er feels 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 yond marble heaven,
Kneels. In the due reverence of a sacred vow
I here engage my words.
Do not rise yet.
Kneels. 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 wrong’d Othello’s service! Let him command,
And to obey shall be in me remorse,
What bloody business ever. They rise.
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! O, 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.
Before the castle.
Enter Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown. Desdemona Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lies? Clown I dare not say he lies any where. Desdemona Why, man? Clown He’s a soldier, and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing. Desdemona Go to: where lodges he? Clown To tell you where he lodges, is to tell you where I lie. Desdemona Can any thing be made of this? Clown 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. Desdemona Can you inquire him out, and be edified by report? Clown I will catechise the world for him; that is, make questions, and by them answer. Desdemona Seek him, bid him come hither: tell him I have moved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will be well. Clown To do this is within the compass of man’s wit: and therefore I will attempt the doing it. Exit. Desdemona Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia? Emilia I know not, madam. DesdemonaBelieve 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.
Who, he? I think the sun where he was born
Drew all such humours from him.
I will not leave him now till Cassio
Be call’d to him.
Well, my good lady.
Aside. O, hardness to dissemble!—
How do you, Desdemona?
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 have a salt and sorry rheum offends me;
Lend me thy handkerchief.
That is 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 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.
’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 skilful
Conserved of maidens’ hearts.
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.
Come, come;
You’ll never meet a more sufficient man.
A man that all his time
Hath founded his good fortunes on your love,
Shared dangers with you—
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
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