Othello Page #16

Othello is a tragedy by William Shakespeare, believed to have been written in 1603. It is based on the story Un Capitano Moro by Cinthio, a disciple of Boccaccio, first published in 1565.

• Drama

								


   Cassio. How now, my sweete Bianca? How now? How now?
  Othe. By Heauen, that should be my Handkerchiefe

   Bian. If you'le come to supper to night you may, if you will not come when you are next prepar'd for.

Exit

  Iago. After her: after her

   Cas. I must, shee'l rayle in the streets else

   Iago. Will you sup there?
  Cassio. Yes, I intend so

   Iago. Well, I may chance to see you: for I would very faine speake with you

   Cas. Prythee come: will you?
  Iago. Go too; say no more

   Oth. How shall I murther him, Iago

   Iago. Did you perceiue how he laugh'd at his vice?
  Oth. Oh, Iago

   Iago. And did you see the Handkerchiefe?
  Oth. Was that mine?
  Iago. Yours by this hand: and to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife: she gaue it him and, he hath giu'n it his whore

   Oth. I would haue him nine yeeres a killing: A fine woman, a faire woman, a sweete woman?
  Iago. Nay, you must forget that

   Othello. I, let her rot and perish, and be damn'd to night, for she shall not liue. No, my heart is turn'd to stone: I strike it, and it hurts my hand. Oh, the world hath not a sweeter Creature: she might lye by an Emperours side, and command him Taskes

   Iago. Nay, that's not your way

   Othe. Hang her, I do but say what she is: so delicate with her Needle: an admirable Musitian. Oh she will sing the Sauagenesse out of a Beare: of so high and plenteous wit, and inuention?
  Iago. She's the worse for all this

   Othe. Oh, a thousand, a thousand times: And then of so gentle a condition?
  Iago. I too gentle

   Othe. Nay that's certaine: But yet the pitty of it, Iago: oh Iago, the pitty of it Iago

   Iago. If you are so fond ouer her iniquitie: giue her pattent to offend, for if it touch not you, it comes neere no body

   Oth. I will chop her into Messes: Cuckold me?
  Iago. Oh, 'tis foule in her

   Oth. With mine Officer?
  Iago. That's fouler

   Othe. Get me some poyson, Iago, this night. Ile not expostulate with her: least her body and beautie vnprouide my mind againe: this night Iago

   Iago. Do it not with poyson, strangle her in her bed, Euen the bed she hath contaminated

   Oth. Good, good: The Iustice of it pleases: very good

   Iago. And for Cassio, let me be his vndertaker: You shall heare more by midnight. Enter Lodouico, Desdemona, and Attendants.

  Othe. Excellent good: What Trumpet is that same?
  Iago. I warrant something from Venice, 'Tis Lodouico, this, comes from the Duke. See, your wife's with him

   Lodo. Saue you worthy Generall

   Othe. With all my heart Sir

   Lod. The Duke, and the Senators of Venice greet you

   Othe. I kisse the Instrument of their pleasures

   Des. And what's the newes, good cozen Lodouico
  Iago. I am very glad to see you Signior: Welcome to Cyprus

   Lod. I thanke you: how do's Lieutenant Cassio?
  Iago. Liues Sir,
  Des. Cozen, there's falne betweene him, & my Lord, An vnkind breach: but you shall make all well

   Othe. Are you sure of that?
  Des. My Lord?
  Othe. This faile you not to do, as you will-
  Lod. He did not call: he's busie in the paper, Is there deuision 'twixt my Lord, and Cassio?
  Des. A most vnhappy one: I would do much T' attone, them, for the loue I beare to Cassio

   Oth. Fire, and brimestone

   Des. My Lord

   Oth. Are you wise?
  Des. What is he angrie?
  Lod. May be the Letter mou'd him. For as I thinke, they do command him home, Deputing Cassio in his Gouernment

   Des. Trust me, I am glad on't

   Othe. Indeed?
  Des. My Lord?
  Othe. I am glad to see you mad

   Des. Why, sweete Othello?
  Othe. Diuell

   Des. I haue not deseru'd this

   Lod. My Lord, this would not be beleeu'd in Venice, Though I should sweare I saw't. 'Tis very much, Make her amends: she weepes

   Othe. Oh diuell, diuell: If that the Earth could teeme with womans teares, Each drop she falls, would proue a Crocodile: Out of my sight

   Des. I will not stay to offend you

   Lod. Truely obedient Lady: I do beseech your Lordship call her backe

   Othe. Mistris

   Des. My Lord

   Othe. What would you with her, Sir?
  Lod. Who I, my Lord?
  Othe. I, you did wish, that I would make her turne: Sir, she can turne, and turne: and yet go on And turne againe. And she can weepe, Sir, weepe. And she's obedient: as you say obedient. Very obedient: proceed you in your teares. Concerning this Sir, (oh well-painted passion) I am commanded home: get you away: Ile send for you anon. Sir I obey the Mandate, And will returne to Venice. Hence, auaunt: Cassio shall haue my Place. And Sir, to night I do entreat, that we may sup together. You are welcome Sir to Cyprus. Goates, and Monkeys. Enter.

  Lod. Is this the Noble Moore, whom our full Senate Call all in all sufficient? Is this the Nature Whom Passion could not shake? Whose solid vertue The shot of Accident, nor dart of Chance Could neither graze, nor pierce?
  Iago. He is much chang'd

   Lod. Are his wits safe? Is he not light of Braine?
  Iago. He's that he is: I may not breath my censure. What he might be: if what he might, he is not, I would to heauen he were

   Lod. What? Strike his wife?
  Iago. 'Faith that was not so well: yet would I knew That stroke would proue the worst

   Lod. Is it his vse? Or did the Letters, worke vpon his blood, And new create his fault?
  Iago. Alas, alas: It is not honestie in me to speake What I haue seene, and knowne. You shall obserue him, And his owne courses will denote him so, That I may saue my speech: do but go after And marke how he continues

   Lod. I am sorry that I am deceiu'd in him.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Othello and aemilia.

  Othe. You haue seene nothing then? Aemil. Nor euer heard: nor euer did suspect

   Othe. Yes, you haue seene Cassio, and she together

   Aemi. But then I saw no harme: and then I heard, Each syllable that breath made vp betweene them

   Othe. What? Did they neuer whisper? Aemil. Neuer my Lord

   Othe. Nor send you out o'th' way? Aemil. Neuer

   Othe. To fetch her Fan, her Gloues, her Mask, nor nothing? Aemil. Neuer my Lord

   Othe. That's strange. Aemil. I durst (my Lord) to wager, she is honest: Lay downe my Soule at stake: If you thinke other, Remoue your thought. It doth abuse your bosome: If any wretch haue put this in your head, Let Heauen requit it with the Serpents curse, For if she be not honest, chaste, and true, There's no man happy. The purest of their Wiues Is foule as Slander

   Othe. Bid her come hither: go.

Exit aemilia.

She saies enough: yet she's a simple Baud That cannot say as much. This is a subtile Whore: A Closset Locke and Key of Villanous Secrets, And yet she'le kneele, and pray: I haue seene her do't. Enter Desdemona, and aemilia.

  Des. My Lord, what is your will?
  Othe. Pray you Chucke come hither

   Des. What is your pleasure?
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