Amil. And your reports have fet the Murther oA.
Oth. Nay, ftare not, Mafters, it is true indeed.
Gra. 'Tis a ftrange Truth.
Mon. Oh monftrous A&t.

Emil. Villany! villany! villany!

I think upon't--I think---I fmell't--- villany!
I thought fo then; I'll kill my felf for Grief,
O Villany, Villany!

Fago. 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, Jago, I will ne'er go home.

Oth. Oh! oh! oh!

Amil. Nay, lay thee down and roar : For thou haft kill'd the fweeteft Innocent, That e'er did lift up eye.

Oth. Oh fhe was foul!

I fcarce did know you, Uncle; there lyes your Niece,
Whose Breath indeed, thefe Hands have newly ftop'd;
I know this A& fhews horrible and grim.

Gra. Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy Father's dead,
Thy 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 defperate turn;
Yea, curfe his better Angel from his fide,
And fall to Reprobatior.

Oth. 'Tis pitiful, but yet Fago knows,
That the with Caffio hath the act of Shame
A thoufand times committed. Caffio confeft it,
And she did gratifie 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 antick Token
My Father gave my Mother.

Amil. Oh Heav'n! Oh heav'nly Powers!
Jago. Come, hold your peace.

Amil. 'Twill out, 'twill out-I peace!
No, I will fpeak as liberal as the North,

Let

Let Heav'n, and Men, and Devils, let them all,
All, all, cry fhame against me, yet I'll speak.
Fago. Be wife and get you
Emil. I will not.

home.

[Jago offers to ftab his Wife.

Gra. Fie, your Sword upon a Woman?
Emil. Oh, thou dull Moor,

That Handkerchief thou speak'st of

I found by Fortune, and did give my Husband;
For often, with a folemn earneftness,

More than indeed belong'd to fuch a Trifle,
He begg'd of me, to steal it.

Fago. Villanous Whore!

Emil. She give it Caffio? Alas I found it, And I did give't my Husband.

Fago: Filth, thou lieft.

Amil 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?

[Jago breaks through and wounds his Wife, then runs out. Oth. Are there no ftones in Heav'n,

But what serve for the Thunder? precious Villain!
Gra. The Woman falls; fure he hath kill'd his Wife.
Æmil. Ay, ay; Oh lay me by my Mistress fide.
Gra. He's gone, but his Wife's kill'd.

Mon. 'Tis a notorious Villain; take you this Weapon, Which I have recover'd from the Moor:

Come, guard the Door without, let him not pafs.

But kill him rather; I'll after that fame Villain,

For 'tis a damned Slave.

Oth. I am not valiant neither;

But every Puny whipfter gets my Sword.
But why should Honour out-live Honesty?
Let it go all.

Emil. What did thy Song boad, Lady?
Hark, canft thou hear me? I will play the Swan,
And die in Mufick; Willow, Willow, Willow
Moor, fhe was chaft, fhe lov'd thee, cruel Moor,
So come my Soul to Blifs, as I fpeak true;
So fpeaking as I think, alas, I die.

[Exit,

[Æmilia Dies.

Oth.

Oth. I have another Weapon in this Chamber,
It was a Sword of Spain, the Ice brooks temper;
Oh here it is: Uncle, I must come forth.

Gra. 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.
Gra. What is the matter?

Oth. Behold I have a Weapon:

A better never did it self fuftain

Upon a Soldier's Thigh. I have seen the Day,
That with this little Arm, and this good Sword,
I have made my way through more impediments,
Than twenty times your ftop. But, oh vain Boaft !
Who can controul his Fate? 'Tis not fo now.
Be not afraid, though you do fee me weapon'd;
Here is my Journey's end, here is my Butt,
And very Sea-mark of my utmoft Sail.
Do you go back difmay'd? 'Tis a loft Fear:
Man but a Rufh against Othello's Breast,
And he retires. Where fhould Othello go?

Now-how doft thou look now? Oh ill-ftar'd Wench!
Pale as thy Smock! When we fhall meet at Compt,
This look of thine will hurl my Soul from Heav'n,
And Fiends will fnatch at it. Cold, cold, my Girls
Even like thy Chastity. O curfed, curfed Slave!
Whip me, ye Devils,

From the Poffeffion of this heav'nly fight;

Blow me about in Winds, and roaft me in Sulphur,
Wash me in steep-down Gulf of liquid Fire-

Oh Desdemona! Dead, Desdemona! Dead, dead! Oh, oh!
Enter Lodovico, Caffio led in wounded, Montano, and
Jago Prifoner, with Officers.

Lod. Where is this rafh, and moft unfortunate Man? Oth. That's he that was Othella: Here I am.

Led. Where is that Viper? bring the Villain forth. Oth. I look down towards his Feet; but that's a Fable,

If that thou beeft a Devil, I cannot kill thee.

[Othello wounds Jago.

Lod. Wrench his Sword from him.

Fago.

Jago. I bleed, Sir, but not kill'd.

Oth. I am not forry neither, I'd have thee live; For in my Senfe, 'tis happiness to die.

Lod. Oh thou, Othello, that waft once fo good,

Falo in the practice of a curfed Slave,
What shall be said to thee?

Oth. Why any thing;

An Honourable Murtherer, if you will:
For nought I did in Hate, but all in Honour.
Lod. This wretch hath part confeft his Villany:
Did you and he confent in Caffio's Death?
Oth. Ay.

Caf. Dear General, I never gave you Cause. 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 Soul and Body. Jago. Demand me nothing, what you know, you know; From this time forth I never will fpeak word.

Lod. What? not to pray!

Gra. Torments will ope your Lips.

Oth. Well, thou doft beft.

Led. Sir you fhall underftand what hath befaln,
Which as I think, you know not; here is a Letter,
Found in the Pocket of the flain Rodorigo,

And here another, the one of them imports
The Death of Caffio, to be undertook

By Roderigo.

Oth. O Villain!

Caf. Moft heathenish, and moft grofs.

Lod. Now, here's another difcontented Paper Found in his Pocket too; and this it seems Rodorigo meant t' have fent this damned Villain; But that belike Jago in the interim

Came in, and fatisfy'd him.

Oth. O thou pernicious Caitiff!

How came you, Caffio, by that Handkerchief
That was my Wife's?

Caf. I found it in my Chamber;

And he himself confeft it but even now,
That there he dropt it for a special purpose,

Which wrought to his defire.

Oth. O Fool, Fool, Fool!

Caf. There is befides, in Rodorigo's Letter,
How he upbraids Jago, that he made him
Brave me upon the Watch; whereon it came
That I was caft; and even now he spake
After long feeming dead, Jago hurt him,*
Jago fet him on.

Lod. You muft forfake this room, and go with us;
Your Power and your Command is taken off,
And Caffio rules in Cyprus. For this Slave,

If there be any cunning Cruelty,

That can torment him much, and hold him long,
It shall be his. You fhall close Prifoner reft,
Till that the Nature of your Fault be known
To the Venetian State. Come, bring away.

Oth. Soft you; a word or two before you go.

I have done the State fome Service, and they know't;
No more of that. I pray you in your Letters,
When you fhall thefe unlucky Deeds relate,
Speak of me, as I am. Nothing extenuate,
Nor fet down ought in Malice.
Then must you speak,

Of one that lov'd not wifely, but too well;
Of one, not eafily Jealous, but being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extream; of one, whofe Hand,
Like the bafe Indian, threw a Pearl away

Richer than all his Tribe; of one, whofe fubdu'd Eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,

Drop Tears as faft as the Arabian Trees

Their Medicinal Gum. Set you down this.
And fay befides, that in Aleppo once,

Where a Malignant, and a Turband-Turk
Beat a Venetian, and traduc'd the State,

I took by th' Throat the Circumcifed Dog,

And fmote him, thus.

Lod. Oh bloody Period!

Gra. All that is fpoke is marr'd.

[Stabs himself.

Oth. I kift thee, e'er I kill'd thee: No way but this, Killing my felf, to die upon a Kifs.

[Dies.

Caf.