Cassio.
Thanks to the valiant of this warlike isle,† ^note














































That so approve the Moor: oh, let the heav'ns
Give him defence against the elements,
For I have lost him on a dangerous sea.

Mont.
Is he well shipp'd?

Cas.
His bark is stoutly timber'd, and his pilot
Of very expert and approv'd allowance.

Within.]
A sail, a sail, a sail! Enter a Gentleman.

Cas.
What noise?

Gent.
The town is empty; on the brow o'th' sea
Stand ranks of people, and they cry, a sail.

Cas.
My hopes do shape him for the governor.
I pray you, sir, go forth,
And give us truth who 'tis that is arrived.

Gent.
I shall. [Exit.

Mont.
But, good lieutenant, is your general wiv'd?

Cas.
Most fortunately, he hath achiev'd a maid,
That paragons description and wild fame.

Enter a Gentleman.
How now? Who has put in?

Gent.
It is one Iago, ancient to the general.

Cas.
H'as had most favourable and happy speed;
Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,
As having sense of beauty, do omit
Their mortal natures, letting safe go by
The divine Desdemona.

Mont.
What is she?

Cas.
She that I spoke of, our great captain's captain,
Left in the conduct of the bold Iago. Enter Desdemona, Iago, Rodorigo, and Æmilia.
O behold!
The riches of the ship is come on shore:
Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of Heav'n,
Before, behind thee, and on every hand,
Enwheel thee round.

Des.
I thank you, valiant Cassio.
What tidings can you tell me of my lord?

Cas.
He is not yet arriv'd, nor know I ought
But that he's well, and will be shortly here.

Des.
O, but I fear—how lost you company?

Cas.
The great contention of the sea and skies,
Parted our fellowship.
Good antient, you are welcome. Welcome, mistress.
Let it not gall your patience, good Iago, [To Æmilia.
That I extend my manners. 'Tis my breeding,
That gives me this bold shew of courtesy.

Iago.
Sir, would she give you so much of her lips,
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,
You'd have enough.

Des.
Alas! she has no speech.

Iago.
In faith too much.
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart,
And chides with thinking.

Æmil.
You have little cause to say so.

Iago.
Come on, come on; you're pictures out o' doors,
Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens,
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,
Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds!

Des.
O, fie upon thee, slanderer!

Iago.
Nay, it is true; or else I am a Turk;
You rise to play, and go to bed to work.* ^note

Æmil.
You shall not write my praise.

Iago.
No, let me not.

Des.
What would'st thou write of me, if thou should'st praise me?† ^note

Iago.
Oh gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing, if not critical.

Des.
Come, one essay. There's one gone to the harbour?

Cas.
Ay, madam.

Des.
I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.
What praise could thou bestow on a deserving woman, indeed?
Iago.
She that was ever fair, and never proud,
Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud;
Never lack'd gold, and yet went never gay
Fled from her wish, and yet said, now I may;
She that when anger'd, her revenge being nigh,
Bade her wrong stay, and her displeasure fly;
She that could think, and ne'er disclose her mind,
Have suitors following, and not look behind;
She was a wight, (if ever such wight were)—

Des.
To do what?
Iago.
To suckle fools, and chronicle small-beer.

Des.

Oh most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not learn of him, Æmilia, tho' he be thy husband. How say you, Cassio, is he not a most prophane and liberal censurer?

Cas.

He speaks home, madam; you may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar.

Iago. [Aside.]

He takes her by the palm; ay, well said—whisper.—With as little a web as this, will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do—You say true, 'tis so, indeed.—If such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantcy, it had been better you had not kiss'd your three fingers so oft. [Trumpet sounds.] The Moor,—I know his trumpet.

Des.

Let's meet him, and receive him.

Oth.
Oh, my fair warrior!

Des.
My dear Othello.

Oth.
It gives me wonder great as my content,
To see you here before me. O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death:* ^note
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas,
Olympus high; and duck again as low,
As hell's from heav'n! If I 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.

Des.
The heav'ns forbid,
But that our loves and comforts should encrease,
Ev'n as our days do grow!

Oth.
Amen to that, sweet powers!
I cannot speak enough of this content,
It stops me here: it is too much of joy.

And this, and this, the greatest discords be, [Kissing her.
That e'er our hearts shall make.

Iago.

Oh, you are well tun'd, now; but I'll let down the pegs that make this musick, as honest as I seem.

Oth.
News, friends, our wars are done; the Turks are drown'd.
How do our old acquaintance of this isle?
Honey, you shall be well desir'd in Cyprus,
I've found great love amongst them. Oh, my sweet,
I prattle out of fashion, and I dote,
In mine own comfort. Pr'ythee, good Iago,
Go to the bay, and disembark my coffers:
Bring thou the master to the citadel.
He is a good one, and his worthiness
Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona,
Once more well met at Cyprus. [Exeunt Othello, Desdemona, &c. Manent Iago and Rodorigo.* ^note

Iago.

Come hither, Rodorigo, if thou be'st valiant: list me; the lieutenant, to-night, watches on the court of guard. First, I must tell thee this; Desdemona is directly in love with him.

Rod.

With him! why, 'tis not possible!

Iago.

Lay thy fingers thus; and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me with what violence she first lov'd the Moor, but for bragging, and telling her fantastical lies. And will she love him still for prating? Let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed. And what delight shall she have to look on the devil!

Rod.

I cannot believe that of her, she's full of most bless'd condition.

Iago.

Bless'd fig's end! the wine she drinks is made of grapes. Bless'd pudding! did'st thou not see her

paddle with the palm of his hand? Did'st not mark that?

Rod.

Yes, that I did, but that was but courtesy.

Iago.

Letchery, by this hand; an idex, an obscure prologue to the history of lust, and foul thoughts. Sir, be you rul'd by me. I have brought you from Venice. Watch you, to-night; for the command, I'll lay't upon you. Cassio knows you not: I'll not be far from you. Do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or taunting his discipline, or from what other course you please, which the time shall more favourably minister.

Rod.

Well.

Iago.

Sir, he's rash, and very sudden in choler: and, haply, may strike at you. Provoke him, that he may; for even of that will I cause those of Cyprus to mutiny; whose qualification shall come into no true taste again, but by the displanting of Cassio.

Rod.

I will do this, if you can bring it to any opportunity.

Iago.

I warrant thee. Meet me, by and by, at the citadel. I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewel.

Rod.

Adieu.

Iago.
That Cassio loves her, I do well believe;
That she loves him, 'tis apt, and of great credit.
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,
Is of a constant, loving, noble nature;
And, I dare think, he'll prove to Desdemona,
A most dear husband. Now I love her too,
Not out of absolute lust, (tho', peradventure,
I stand accountant for as great a sin;)
But partly led to diet my revenge,
For that I do suspect, the lustful Moor
Hath leapt into my seat.* ^note The thought whereof

Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw me inwards;
And nothing can, or shall, content my soul,
'Till I am even'd with him, wife for wife;
Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor
At least into a jealousy so strong,
That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do,
If this poor brach† ^note of Venice, whom I trace
For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,
I'll have out Michael Cassio on the hip,
Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb;
(For I fear Cassio with my night-cap, too,)
Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me,
For making him egregiously an ass;
And practising upon his peace and quiet,
Even to madness. 'Tis here—but yet confus'd:
Knavery's plain face is never seen, till us'd. [Exit.

Next section