If heav'n would make me fuch another world, I'd not have fold her for it. Emil. My husband! Oth. Ay, 'twas he that told me firft; An honeft man he is, and hates the flime Emil. My husband! Oth. What needs this iteration, woman? I fay, thy husband. Emil. Oh miftrefs! villainy has made mocks with love. My husband fay, she was false! Oth. He, woman; I fay, thy husband; do'ft understand the word? Emil. Do thy worst: This deed of thine is no more worthy heav'n, Than thou waft worthy her. Oth. Peace, you were beft. Emil. Thou haft not half that power to do me harm, As I have to be hurt: oh gull! oh dolt! As ignorant as dirt! thou'ft done a deed I care not for thy fword, I'll make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives-Help! help, hoa! help! The Moor hath kill'd my mistress. Murder, murder! Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others. Mon. What is the matter? how now, General ? Emil. Oh, are you come, Iago? you have done well, That men muft lay their murders on your neck. Gra. What is the matter? Emil. Difprove this villain, if thou be'ft a man ; He fays, thou toldst him that his wife was falfe : I know, thou didst not; thou'rt not fuch 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. Emil. But did you ever tell him, fhe was falfe ? - Emil. You told a lye; an odious, damned, lye: She falfe with Caffio? did you fay, with Caffio? Iago. With Caffio, mistress; go to, charm your tongue. Amil. I will not charm my tongue; I'm bound to speak; My mistress lies here murder'd in her bed. All. Oh heavens forefend ! Emil. And your reports have fet the murder on. Mon. Oh monstrous act! Emil. Villainy! villainy! villainy! I think upon't-I think-I fmell't-Oh villainy! Iago. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home. Emil. 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. Oh! oh! oh! [Othello falls on the bed. Emil. Nay, lay thee down and roar: For thou haft kill'd the sweeteft innocent, That e'er did lift up eye. Oth. Oh, the was foul! [Rifing. I fcarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whofe breath, indeed, thefe hands have newly stopp'd; I know, this act fhews horrible and grim. Gra. Poor Defdemona? I'm glad, thy father's dead: Oth. "Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows, And And fhe did gratify his amorous works, Emil. Oh heav'n! oh heav'nly powers! Emil. Twill out, 'twill out-I, peace! r; Let heav'n, and men, and devils, let them all, Emil. I will not. [Iago offers to ftab his wife. Gra. Fy, your fword upon a woman? Emil. Oh, thou dull Moor! that handkerchief, thou fpeak'st of, I found by fortune, and did give my husband; (More than, indeed, belong'd to fuch a trifle,) Iago. Villainous whore! Emil. She give it Caffio? alas, I found it, And I did giv't my husband. lago. Filth, thou lieft. Emil. By heav'n, I do not; I do not, gentlemen : Oh murd'rous coxcomb! what should fuch a fool Do with fo good a wife? [Iago breaks through and wounds his wife, then runs out. Oth. Are there no ftones in heav'n, But what ferve for the thunder? precious villain! Mon. 'Tis a notorious villain; take this weapon, Oth. Oth. I am not valiant neither; But every puny whipfter gets my fword. Emil. What did thy fong bode, lady? [Æmilia dies. Gra. within.] If thou attempt it, it will coft thee dear; Thou haft no weapon, and perforce muft fuffer. Oth. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will affault thee. Re-enter Gratiano. Gra. What is the matter? A better never did itself sustain Upon a foldier's thigh. I've seen the day, Now how doft thou look now? oh ill-ftarr'd wench! From the poffeffion of this heav'nly fight; Blow Blow me about in winds, roaft me in fulphur, Lod. Where is this rafh and most unfortunate man ? [Othello wounds Iago. Lod.' Wrench his fword from him. Iago. I bleed, Sir, but not kill'd. Oth. I am not forry, neither: I'd have thee live; For, in my fenfe, 'tis happiness to die. Lod. Oh thou, Othello, that waft once fo good, Oth. Why, any thing; An honourable murd'rer, if you will: Caf. Dear General, I never gave you caufe. Lod. What? not to pray ? Gra. Torments will ope your lips. Oth. Well, thou doft best. Lod. Sir, you fhall understand what hath befall'n. Which, as I think, you know not; here's a letter, Found in the pocket of the flain Rodorigo, And, here, another; one of them imports The death of Caffio to be undertook By Rodorigo. VOL. VIII. |