thus washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady M. Yet here's a spot.

Doct. Hark! she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-One; two; why, then, 'tis time to do't:- -Hell is murky !*-Fie; my lord, fie! a soldier, and afear'd? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?-Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

༈

Doct. Do you mark that?

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; Where is she now?What, will these hands ne'er be clean?-No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.

Doct. Go to, go to; you have known what you should

not.

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known.

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.Oh! oh! oh!

Doct. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body.

Doct. Well, well, well,―

Gent. 'Pray God it be, sir.

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown;

* Dark.

look not so pale:-I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out of his grave.

Doct. Even so?

Lady M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand; what's done, cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed.

DESPISED OLD AGE.

I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fallen into the sear,' the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but in their stead, Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.

DISEASES OF THE MIND INCURABLE.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?

REFLECTIONS ON LIFE.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.—

* Dry.

Othello.

ACT I.

PREFERMENT.

'Tis the curse of service;

Preferment goes by letter, and affection,
Not by the old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first.

IAGO'S DISPRAISE OF HONESTY.
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For naught but provender; and, when he's old, cashier'd;
Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are,
Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves;
And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,
Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lined
their coats,

Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul, And such a one do I profess myself.

For, sir,

It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:

In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end;
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart,
In compliment extern,* 'tis not long after

* Outward show of civility.

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

LOVE, OTHELLO'S SOLE MOTIVE FOR MARRYING.

For know, Iago,

But that I love the gentle Desdemona,

I would not my unhoused* free condition

Put into circumspection and confine

For the sea's worth.

OTHELLO'S DESCRIPTION TO THE SENATE OF HIS
WINNING THE AFFECTIONS OF DESDEMONA.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv'd 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 bless'd with the set 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 with.

Her father lov'd 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.

* Unsettled.

† Best exertion.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke 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 travel's history.

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd 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 lov'd her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;

And I lov'd her that she did pity them.

*My behaviour.

† Parts.

Intention and attention were once synonymous.