The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 412

EMILIA. My husband?

OTh.e.l.lO. What needs this iteration, woman? I say thy husband.

EMILIA. O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love!

My husband say that she was false!

OTh.e.l.lO. He, woman; I say thy husband. Dost understand the word?

My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago.

EMILIA. 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.

OTh.e.l.lO. Ha!

EMILIA. Do thy worst; This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou wast worthy her.

OTh.e.l.lO. Peace, you were best.

EMILIA. 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!

Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others.

MONTANO. What is the matter? How now, general?

EMILIA. O, are you come, Iago? You have done well, That men must lay their murthers on your neck.

GRATIANO. What is the matter?

EMILIA. Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man.

He says thou told'st him that his wife was false; I know thou didst not, thou'rt not such a villain.

Speak, for my heart is full.

IAGO. I told him what I thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true.

EMILIA. But did you ever tell him she was false?

IAGO. I did.

EMILIA. You told a lie, an odious, d.a.m.ned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie!

She false with Ca.s.sio? Did you say with Ca.s.sio?

IAGO. With Ca.s.sio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue.

EMILIA. I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak.

My mistress here lies murther'd in her bed- ALL. O heavens forfend!

EMILIA. And your reports have set the murther on.

OTh.e.l.lO. Nay, stare not, masters; it is true indeed.

GRATIANO. 'Tis a strange truth.

MONTANO. O monstrous act!

EMILIA. Villainy, villainy, villainy!

I think upon't, I think, I smell't, O villainy!

I thought so then. I'll kill myself for grief.

O villainy, villainy!

IAGO. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home.

EMILIA. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak; 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now.

Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home.

OTh.e.l.lO. O! O! O! Falls on the bed.

EMILIA. Nay, lay thee down and roar; For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent That e'er did lift up eye.

OTh.e.l.lO. [Rises.] O, she was foul!

I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopp'd.

I know this act shows horrible and grim.

GRATIANO. Poor Desdemon! I am glad thy father's dead.

Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Sh.o.r.e his old thread in twain; did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobation.

OTh.e.l.lO. 'Tis pitiful, but yet Iago knows That she with Ca.s.sio hath the act of shame A thousand times committed. Ca.s.sio confess'd it, And she did gratify his amorous works With that recognizance and pledge of love Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand, It was a handkerchief, an antique token My father gave my mother.

EMILIA. O heaven! O heavenly powers!

IAGO. 'Zounds! Hold your peace.

EMILIA. 'Twill out, 'twill. I peace?

No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

IAGO. Be wise, and get you home.

EMILIA. I will not.

Iago offers to stab Emilia.

GRATIANO. Fie!

Your sword upon a woman?

EMILIA. O thou dull Moor! That handkerchief thou speak'st of I found by fortune and did give my husband, For often with a solemn earnestness, More than indeed belong'd to such a trifle, He begg'd of me to steal it.

IAGO. Villainous wh.o.r.e!

EMILIA. She give it Ca.s.sio? No, alas, I found it, And I did give't my husband.

IAGO. Filth, thou liest!

EMILIA. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen.

O murtherous c.o.xcomb! What should such a fool Do with so good a wife?

OTh.e.l.lO. Are there not stones in heaven But what serve for thunder? Precious villain!

He runs at Iago, but Montano disarms him. Iago stabs Emilia.

GRATIANO. The woman falls; sure, he hath kill'd his wife.

EMILIA. Ay, ay! O, lay me by my mistress' side. Exit Iago.

GRATIANO. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd.

MONTANO. 'Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon, Which I have here recover'd from the Moor.

Come, guard the door without; let him not pa.s.s, But kill him rather. I'll after that same villain, For 'tis a d.a.m.ned slave. Exeunt all but Oth.e.l.lo and Emilia.

OTh.e.l.lO. I am not valiant neither, But every puny whipster gets my sword.

But why should honor outlive honesty?

Let it go all.

EMILIA. What did thy song bode, lady?

Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan, And die in music. [Sings.] "Willow, willow, willow."

Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor; So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true; So speaking as I think, I die, I die. Dies.

OTh.e.l.lO. I have another weapon in this chamber; It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper- O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth.

GRATIANO. [Within.] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear.

Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer.

OTh.e.l.lO. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will a.s.sault thee.

Re-enter Gratiano.

GRATIANO. What is the matter?

OTh.e.l.lO. 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 b.u.t.t And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.

Do you go back dismay'd? 'Tis a lost fear.

Man but a rush against Oth.e.l.lo's breast, And he retires. Where should Oth.e.l.lo 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 s.n.a.t.c.h at it. Cold, cold, my girl?

Even like thy chast.i.ty. 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 Desdemon! dead, Desdemon! dead!

O! O! O!