Shakespeare's First Folio Part 642

Emil. And your reports haue set the Murder on

Oth.e.l.lo. Nay stare not Masters, It is true indeede

Gra. 'Tis a strange Truth

Mont. O monstrous Acte

Emil. Villany, villany, villany: I thinke vpon't, I thinke: I smel't: O Villany: I thought so then: Ile kill my selfe for greefe.

O villany! villany!

Iago. What, are you mad?

I charge you get you home

Emil. Good Gentlemen, let me haue leaue to speake: 'Tis proper I obey him; but not now: Perchance Iago, I will ne're go home

Oth. Oh, oh, oh

Emil. Nay, lay thee downe, and roare: For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent, That ere did lift vp eye

Oth. Oh she was fowle!

I sca.r.s.e did know you Vnkle, there lies your Neece, Whose breath (indeed) these hands haue newly stopp'd: I know this acte shewes horrible and grim

Gra. Poore Desdemon: I am glad thy Father's dead, Thy Match was mortall to him: and pure greefe Sh.o.r.e his old thred in twaine. Did he liue now, This sight would make him do a desperate turne: Yea, curse his better Angell from his side, And fall to Reprobance

Oth. 'Tis pittifull: but yet Iago knowes That she with Ca.s.sio, hath the Act of shame A thousand times committed. Ca.s.sio confest it, And she did gratifie his amorous workes With that Recognizance and pledge of Loue Which I first gaue her: I saw it in his hand: It was a Handkerchiefe, an Antique Token My Father gaue my Mother

Emil. Oh Heauen! oh heauenly Powres!

Iago. Come, hold your peace

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

No, I will speake as liberall as the North; Let Heauen, and Men, and Diuels, let them all, All, all, crie shame against me, yet Ile speake

Iago. Be wise, and get you home

Emil. I will not

Gra. Fye, your Sword vpon a Woman

Emil. Oh thou dull Moore, That Handkerchiefe thou speak'st of I found by Fortune, and did giue my Husband: For often, with a solemne earnestnesse, (More then indeed belong'd to such a Trifle) He begg'd of me, to steale't

Iago. Villanous Wh.o.r.e

Emil. She giue it Ca.s.sio? No, alas I found it, And I did giu't my Husband

Iago. Filth, thou lyest

Emil. By Heauen I do not, I do not Gentlemen: Oh murd'rous c.o.xcombe, what should such a Foole Do with so good a wife?

Oth. Are there no stones in Heauen, But what serues for the Thunder?

Precious Villaine

Gra. The woman falles: Sure he hath kill'd his Wife

Emil. I, I: oh lay me by my Mistris side

Gra. Hee's gone, but his wife's kill'd

Mon. 'Tis a notorious Villain: take you this weapon Which I haue recouer'd from the Moore: Come guard the doore without, let him not pa.s.se, But kill him rather. Ile after that same villaine, For 'tis a d.a.m.ned Slaue.

Enter.

Oth. I am not valiant neither: But euery Punie whipster gets my Sword.

But why should Honor out-liue Honesty?

Let it go all.

Aemil. What did thy Song boad Lady?

Hearke, canst thou heare me? I will play the Swan, And dye in Musicke: Willough, Willough, Willough.

Moore, she was chaste: She lou'd thee, cruell Moore, So come my Soule to blisse, as I speake true: So speaking as I thinke, alas, I dye

Oth. I haue another weapon in this Chamber, It was a Sword of Spaine, the Ice brookes temper: Oh heere it is: Vnkle I must come forth

Gra. If thou attempt it, it will cost thee deere; Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer

Oth. Looke in vpon me then, and speake with me, Or naked as I am I will a.s.sault thee

Gra. What is the matter?

Othel. Behold, I haue a weapon: A better neuer did it selfe sustaine Vpon a Soldiers Thigh. I haue seene the day, That with this little Arme, and this good Sword, I haue made my way through more impediments Then twenty times your stop. But (oh vaine boast) Who can controll his Fate? 'Tis not so now.

Be not affraid, though you do see me weapon'd: Heere is my iournies end, heere is my b.u.t.t And verie Sea-marke of my vtmost Saile.

Do you go backe dismaid? 'Tis a lost feare: Man but a Rush against Oth.e.l.lo's brest, And he retires. Where should Oth.e.l.lo go?

Now: how dost thou looke now? Oh ill-Starr'd wench, Pale as thy Smocke: when we shall meete at compt, This looke of thine will hurle my Soule from Heauen, And Fiends will s.n.a.t.c.h at it. Cold, cold, my Girle?

Euen like thy Chast.i.ty. O cursed, cursed Slaue!

Whip me ye Diuels, From the possession of this Heauenly sight: Blow me about in windes, roast me in Sulphure, Wash me in steepe-downe gulfes of Liquid fire.

Oh Desdemon! dead Desdemon: dead. Oh, oh!

Enter Lodouico, Ca.s.sio, Montano, and Iago, with Officers.

Lod. Where is this rash, and most vnfortunate man?

Oth. That's he that was Oth.e.l.lo: heere I am

Lod. Where is that Viper?

Bring the Villaine forth

Oth. I look down towards his feet; but that's a Fable, If that thou bee'st a Diuell, I cannot kill thee

Lod. Wrench his Sword from him

Iago. I bleed Sir, but not kill'd

Othel. I am not sorry neither, Il'd haue thee liue: For in my sense, 'tis happinesse to die

Lod. Oh thou Oth.e.l.lo, that was once so good, Falne in the practise of a cursed Slaue, What shall be saide to thee

Oth. Why any thing: An honourable Murderer, if you will: For nought I did in hate, but all in Honour