Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For nought but provender: and, when he's old, ca-
shier'd:
Whip me such honest knaves: Others there are,
Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves;
And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,
Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lin'd
their coats,
Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;
And such a one I do profess myself.
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end:
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern*, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
LOVE, OTHELLO'S SOLE MOTIVE FOR MARRYING.
For know, Iago,
But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused † free condition
Put into circumscription and confine
OTHELLO'S DESCRIPTION TO THE SENATE OF HIS WINNING
THE AFFECTIONS OF DESDEMONA.
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv'd good masters,
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
*Outward show of civility.
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine hath seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action* in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause, [tience,
In speaking for myself: Yet, by your gracious pa-
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver
Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
(For such proceeding I am charg'd withal) I won his daughter with.
Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass'd.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood, and field;
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And 'portance † in my travel's history:
These things to hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: Which, I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels* she had something heard,
But not intentively†: I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:
She swore,-In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful: [strange;
She wish'd, she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me;
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake:
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas,
Olympus-high; and duck again as low
As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die,
'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute,
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.
+ Intention and attention were once synonymous.
FAREWELL, my Desdemona: I will come to thee
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again.
OTHELLO'S FIRST SUSPICION.
Oth. What dost thou think?
As if there were some monster in his thought 'Too hideous to be shown.-Thou dost mean some
I heard thee say but now,-Thou lik'st not that,
When Cassio left my wife; What did'st not like?
And, when I told thee--he was of my counsel
In my whole course of wooing, thou cry'dst, Indeed?
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit: If thou dost love me,
Show me thy thought.
Iago. My lord, you know I love you.
Oth. I think, thou dost; And, for I know thou art full of love and honesty, And weigh'st thy words before thou giv'st them breath, Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more: For such things, in a false disloyal knave,
Are tricks of custom; but in a man that's just, They are close denotements, working from the heart, That passion cannot rule.
Good name, in man, and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something,
"Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that, which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
OTHELLO'S JEALOUSY GAINING GROUnd.
This fellow's of exceeding honesty,
And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit,
Of human dealings: If I do prove her haggard*,
Though that her jesses + were my dear heart-strings,
I'd whistle her off, and let her down to the wind,
To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black;
And have not those soft parts of conversation
That chamberers have:-Or, for I am declin'd
Into the vale of years:—yet that's not much;-
She's gone; I am abus'd; and my relief
Must be to loath her. O, curse of marriage,
That we can call these delicate creatures ours,
And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad,
And live upon the vapour of a dungeon,
Than keep a corner in the thing I love,
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.
THE TORTURES OF JEALOUSY.
Iago. Look, where he comes! [Enter OTHELlo.
Not poppy, nor mandragora §,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ow'dst || yesterday.
* A species of hawk, also a term of reproach applied to a
+ Straps of leather by which a hawk is held on the fist. Men of intrigue.
The mandrake has a soporific quality. || Possessed'st.
|