Imatges de pÓgina
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If heav'n would make me fuch another world,
Of one entire and perfect Chryfolite,

I'd not have fold her for it.

Emil. My husband!

Oth. Ay, 'twas he that told me first;

An honeft man he is, and hates the flime
That sticks on filthy deeds.

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 falfe!

Oth. He, woman;

I fay, thy husband; do'ft understand the word ?
My friend, thy husband, honeft, honeft Iago.
Emil. If he fays fo, may his pernicious foul
Rot half a grain a day! he lies to th' heart.
She was too fond of her moft filthy bargain.
Oth. Hah!

Emil. Do thy worst:

This deed of thine is no more worthy heav'n,
Than thou waft worthy her.

Oth. Peace, you were best.

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't 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?

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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.

Jage.

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, she was false?
Iago. I did.

Emil. You told a lye; an odious, damned, lye:
Upon my foul, a lye; a wicked lye.

She falfe with Caffio? did you fay, with Caffio?
Iago. With Caffio, miftrefs; go to, charm your tongue.
Emil. 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.
Oth. Nay, ftare not, masters; it is true, indeed.
Gra. 'Tis a ftrange truth.

Mon. Oh monftrous act!

Emil. Villainy! villainy! villainy!

I think upon't-I think-I fmell't-Oh villainy!
I thought fo then; I'll kill myself for grief;-
Oh villainy, villainy!

Iago. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home. Emil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to fpeak; '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 fweeteft innocent,

That e'er did lift up eye.

Oth. Oh, the was foul!

[Rifing.

I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whofe breath, indeed, thefe hands have newly ftopp'd; I know, this act fhews horrible and grim.

Gra. Poor Desdemona? I'm glad, thy father's dead :
T'hy match was mortal to him; and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,
This fight would make him do a defp'rate turn;
Yea, curfe his better angel from his fide,
And fall to reprobation.

Oth. "Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows,
That the with Caffio had the act of fhame
A thousand times committed. Caffio confeft it;

And

And fhe did gratify his amorous works,
With that recognizance and pledge of love
Which I first gave her; I faw it in his hand;
It was an handkerchief, an antique token
My father gave my mother.

Emil. Oh heav'n! oh heav'nly powers!
Iago. Come, hold your peace.

Emil. Twill out, 'twill out-I, peace!
No, I will speak as liberal as the air;

Let heav'n, and men, and devils, let them all,
All, all cry fhame against me, yet I'll speak.
Iago. Be wife, and get you home.

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;
For often, with a folemn earneftness,

(More than, indeed, belong'd to such a trifle,)
He begg'd of me to fteal it.

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!
Gra. The woman falls; fure, he has kill'd his wife.
Æmil. Ay, ay; oh, lay me by my miftrefs' fide.
Gra. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd.

Mon. 'Tis a notorious villain; take this weapon,
Which I have here recover'd from the Moor:
Come, guard the door without, let him not pass,
But kill him rather; I'll after that fame villain,
For 'tis a damned flave.
[Exeunt Mon. and Gra.

Oth.

Oth. I am not valiant neither;

But every puny whipfter gets my fword.
But why should honour out-live honesty?
Let it all.

go

Emil. What did thy fong bode, lady?
Hark, can't thou hear me? I will play the fwan,
And die in mufick; Willow, Willow, Willow
Moor, fhe was chafte; fhe lov'd thee, cruel Moor;
So come my foul to blifs, as I speak true;
So fpeaking as I think, alas, I die.

[Æmilia dies.
Oth. I have another weapon in this chamber,
It was a fword of Spain, the Ebro's temper;
Oh, here it is: Uncle, I must come forth.

Gra. within.] If thou attempt it, it will coft thee dear; Thou haft no weapon, and perforce must fuffer. Oth. Look in upon me then, and fpeak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will affault thee.

Re-enter Gratiano.

Gra. What is the matter?
Oth. Lo! I have a weapon:

A better never did itself fuftain

Upon a foldier's thigh. I've feen the day,
That with this little arm, and this good sword,
I've made my way thro' more impediments,
Than twenty times your ftop. But, oh vain boast!
Who can controll his fate? 'tis not fo now.
Be not afraid, tho' you do fee me weapon'd;
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
The very fea-mark of my utmost fail.
Do you go back difmay'd? 'tis a loft fear:
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires. Where should Othello go?
Now

how doft thou look now? oh ill-starr'd wench!
Pale as thy fmock! When we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my foul from heav'n,
And fiends will fnatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl,
Ev'n like thy chastity. O curfed flave!

Whip me, ye devils,

From the poffeffion of this heav'nly fight;

Blow

Blow me about in winds, roaft me in fulphur,
Wash me in steep-down gulphs of liquid fire-
Oh Desdemona! Defdemona! "dead, dead! oh, oh!
Eater Lodovico, Caffio led in wounded, Montano, and
Iago prifoner, with Officers.

Lod. Where is this rafh and most unfortunate man?
Oth. That's he, that was Othello : here I am.
Lod. Where is that viper? bring the villain forth.
Oth. I look down tow'rds his feet; but that's a fable.
If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee.

[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,
Fall'n in the practice of a cursed flave,-
What shall be faid to thee?

Oth. Why, any thing;

An honourable murd'rer, if you will:
For nought I did in hate, but all in honour.
Lod. This wretch hath part confeft his villainy:
Did you and he confent in Caffio's death?
Oth. Ay.

Caf. Dear General, I never gave you caufe.
Oth. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon :
Will you, I pray, demand that demy-devil,
Why he hath thus enfnar'd my foul and body?
Jago. Demand me nothing; what you know, you know;
From this time forth I never will speak word.
Lod. What? not to pray?

Gra. Torments will ope your lips.

Oth. Well, thou dost 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.

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