Shakespeare's First Folio Part 639

What Villaines haue done this?

Cas. I thinke that one of them is heereabout.

And cannot make away

Iago. Oh treacherous Villaines: What are you there? Come in, and giue some helpe

Rod. O helpe me there

Ca.s.sio. That's one of them

Iago. Oh murd'rous Slaue! O Villaine!

Rod. O d.a.m.n'd Iago! O inhumane Dogge!

Iago. Kill men i'th' darke?

Where be these b.l.o.o.d.y Theeues?

How silent is this Towne? Hoa, murther, murther.

What may you be? Are you of good, or euill?

Lod. As you shall proue vs, praise vs

Iago. Signior Lodouico?

Lod. He Sir

Iago. I cry you mercy: here's Ca.s.sio hurt by Villaines

Gra. Ca.s.sio?

Iago. How is't Brother?

Cas. My Legge is cut in two

Iago. Marry heauen forbid: Light Gentlemen, Ile binde it with my s.h.i.+rt.

Enter Bianca.

Bian. What is the matter hoa? Who is't that cry'd?

Iago. Who is't that cry'd?

Bian. Oh my deere Ca.s.sio, My sweet Ca.s.sio: Oh Ca.s.sio, Ca.s.sio, Ca.s.sio

Iago. O notable Strumpet. Ca.s.sio, may you suspect Who they should be, that haue thus mangled you?

Cas. No

Gra. I am sorry to finde you thus; I haue beene to seeke you

Iago. Lend me a Garter. So: - Oh for a Chaire To beare him easily hence

Bian. Alas he faints. Oh Ca.s.sio, Ca.s.sio, Ca.s.sio

Iago. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this Trash To be a party in this Iniurie.

Patience awhile, good Ca.s.sio. Come, come; Lend me a Light: know we this face, or no?

Alas my Friend, and my deere Countryman Rodorigo? No: Yes sure: Yes, 'tis Rodorigo

Gra. What, of Venice?

Iago. Euen he Sir: Did you know him?

Gra. Know him? I

Iago. Signior Gratiano? I cry your gentle pardon: These b.l.o.o.d.y accidents must excuse my Manners, That so neglected you

Gra. I am glad to see you

Iago. How do you Ca.s.sio? Oh, a Chaire, a Chaire

Gra. Rodorigo?

Iago. He, he, 'tis he: Oh that's well said, the Chaire.

Some good man beare him carefully from hence, Ile fetch the Generall's Surgeon. For you Mistris, Saue you your labour. He that lies slaine heere (Ca.s.sio) Was my deere friend. What malice was between you

Cas. None in the world: nor do I know the man?

Iago. What? looke you pale? Oh beare him o'th' Ayre.

Stay you good Gentlemen. Looke you pale, Mistris?

Do you perceiue the gastnesse of her eye?

Nay, if you stare, we shall heare more anon.

Behold her well: I pray you looke vpon her: Do you see Gentlemen? Nay, guiltinesse will speake Though tongues were out of vse.

Aemil. Alas, what is the matter?

What is the matter, Husband?

Iago. Ca.s.sio hath heere bin set on in the darke By Rodorigo, and Fellowes that are scap'd: He's almost slaine, and Rodorigo quite dead.

Aemil. Alas good Gentleman: alas good Ca.s.sio

Iago. This is the fruits of whoring. Prythe aemilia, Go know of Ca.s.sio where he supt to night.

What, do you shake at that?

Bian. He supt at my house, but I therefore shake not

Iago. O did he so? I charge you go with me.

Aemil. Oh fie vpon thee Strumpet

Bian. I am no Strumpet, but of life as honest, As you that thus abuse me.

Aemil. As I? Fie vpon thee

Iago. Kinde Gentlemen: Let's go see poore Ca.s.sio drest.

Come Mistris, you must tel's another Tale.

aemilia, run you to the Cittadell, And tell my Lord and Lady, what hath happ'd: Will you go on afore? This is the night That either makes me, or foredoes me quight.

Exeunt.

Scoena Secunda.

Enter Oth.e.l.lo, and Desdemona in her bed.

Oth. It is the Cause, it is the Cause (my Soule) Let me not name it to you, you chaste Starres, It is the Cause. Yet Ile not shed her blood, Nor scarre that whiter skin of hers, then Snow, And smooth as Monumentall Alablaster: Yet she must dye, else shee'l betray more men: Put out the Light, and then put out the Light: If I quench thee, thou flaming Minister, I can againe thy former light restore, Should I repent me. But once put out thy Light, Thou cunning'st Patterne of excelling Nature, I know not where is that Promethaean heate That can thy Light re-Lume.

When I haue pluck'd thy Rose, I cannot giue it vitall growth againe, It needs must wither. Ile smell thee on the Tree.

Oh Balmy breath, that dost almost perswade Iustice to breake her Sword. One more, one more: Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And loue thee after. One more, and that's the last.

So sweet, was ne're so fatall. I must weepe, But they are cruell Teares: This sorrow's heauenly, It strikes, where it doth loue. She wakes

Des. Who's there? Oth.e.l.lo?

Othel. I Desdemona