Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!-
It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.

[takes off his sword.

Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light.1
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me: but once put out thine,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat,
That can thy light relume: when I have pluck'd thy

rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again;

It needs must wither: - I 'll smell it on the tree.

[kissing her.

O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword! -one more, one more.
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after: -one more, and this the last.
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love. - She wakes.

Des. Who's there? Othello?

Oth.

Ay, Desdemona.

Des. Will you come to bed, my lord?
Oth. Have you pray'd to-night, Desdemona

1