Cyprus, and Gentlemen.
Montano.
What from the cape can you discern at sea?
1 Gent.
Nothing at all, it is a high-wrought flood;
I cannot 'twixt the heaven and the main
Descry a sail.
Mont.
Methinks, the wind hath spoke aloud at land;
A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements;
If it hath ruffian'd so upon the sea,
What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,(20) note
Can hold the morties? what shall we hear of this?
-- 403 --
2 Gent.
A segregation of the Turkish fleet;
For do but stand upon the foaming shore,
The chiding billows seem to pelt the clouds;
The wind-shak'd surge, with high and monstrous main,
Seems to cast water on the burning Bear,
And quench the guards of th' ever fired pole;
I never did like molestation view
On the enchafed flood.
Mont.
If that the Turkish fleet
Be not inshelter'd and embay'd, they're drown'd;
It is impossible to bear it out.
Enter a third Gentleman.
3 Gent.
News, lords, our wars are done:
The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks,
That their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice(21) note
Hath seen a grievous wrack and sufferance
On most part of the fleet.
Mont.
How! is this true?
-- 404 --
3 Gent.
The Ship is here put in,(22) note
A Veronessa; Michael Cassio,
Lieutenant of the warlike Moor Othello,
Is come on shore; the Moor himself's at sea,
And is in full commission here for Cyprus.
Mont.
I'm glad on't; 'tis a worthy Governor.
3 Gent.
But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort,
Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly,
And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted
With foul and violent tempest.
Mont.
Pray heav'ns, he be:
For I have serv'd him, and the man commands
Like a full soldier. Let's to the sea-side,
As well to see the vessel that's come in,
As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello,
Even till we make the main and th' aerial blue
An indistinct regard.
Gent.
Come, let's do so;
For every minute is expectancy
Of more arrivance.
Enter Cassio.
Cas.
Thanks to the valiant of this warlike isle,
That so approve the Moor: oh, let the heav'ns
-- 405 --
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;
Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,
Stand in bold cure.
Within.]
A sail, a sail, a sail!
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.
Gent.
They do discharge their shot of courtesie:
Our friends, at least.
Cas.
I pray you, Sir, go forth,
And give us truth who 'tis that is arriv'd.
Gent.
I shall.
[Exit.
Mont.
But, good lieutenant, is your General wiv'd?
Cas.
Most fortunately, he hath atchiev'd a maid
That paragons description and wild fame:
One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,
And in th' essential vesture of creation
Do's bear all excellency—
Enter Gentleman.
How now? who has put in?
Gent.
'Tis one Iago, Ancient to the General.
Cas.
H'as had most favourable and happy speed;
Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds;
The gutter'd rocks, and congregated sands,
(Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel;)
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 spake of, our great Captain's captain,
Left in the conduct of the bold Iago;
Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts,
A se'nnight's speed. Great Jove, Othello, guard!
-- 406 --
And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,
That he may bless this bay with his tall ship,
Make love's quick pants in Desdemona's arms,
Give renew'd fire to our extinguish'd spirits,
And bring all Cyprus comfort—
Enter Desdemona, Iago, Rodorigo, and Æmilia.
O behold!
The riches of the ship is come on shore:
You men of Cyprus, let her have your knees.
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 aught
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. But, hark, a sail!
Within.]
A sail, a sail!
Gent.
They give this greeting to the Cittadel:
This likewise is a friend.
Cas.
See for the news:
Good Ancient, you are welcome. Welcome, mistress.
[To Æmilia.
Let it not gall your patience, good Iago,
That I extend my manners. 'Tis my breeding,
That gives me this bold shew of courtesie.
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;
I find it still, when I have list to sleep;
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.
-- 407 --
Iago.
Come on, come on; you're pictures out of doors,
Bells in your parlors, 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.
Æmil.
You shall not write my praise.
Iago.
No, let me not.
Des.
What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?
Iago.
Oh gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing, if not critical.
Des.
Come, one assay. There's one gone to the harbour—
Iago.
Ay, Madam.
Des.
I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise;—
Come, how wouldst thou praise me?
Iago.
I am about it; but, indeed, my invention comes
from my pate, as birdlime does from freeze, it plucks
out brains and all. But my muse labours, and thus she is
delivered.
If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,
The one's for use, the other useth it.
Des.
Well prais'd; how if she be black and witty?
Iago.
If she be black, and thereto have a wit,
She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit.
Des.
Worse and worse.
Æmil.
How if fair and foolish?
Iago.
She never yet was foolish, that was fair;
For even her folly helpt her to an heir.
Des.
These are old fond paradoxes, to make fools
laugh i'th' alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for
her that's foul and foolish?
Iago.
There's none so foul and foolish thereunto,
But does foul pranks, which fair and wise ones do.
-- 408 --
Des.
Oh heavy ignorance! thou praisest the worst best.
But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman
indeed? (23) note
one, that in the authority of her merit, did
justly put down the vouch of very malice it self?
Iago.
She that was ever fair, and never proud,
Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud;
Never lackt 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,
Bad her wrong stay, and her displeasure fly;
She that in wisdom never was so frail
To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;
She that could think, and ne'er disclose her mind,
See 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
-- 409 --
learn of him, Æmilia, tho' he be thy husband. (24) noteHow
say you, Cassio, is he not a profane 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—
I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true,
'tis so, indeed—.If such tricks as these strip you out of
your lieutenancy, it had been better you had not kiss'd
your three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt
to play the Sir in. Very good—well kiss'd and excellent
courtesie—'tis so, indeed—Yet again—your fingers
to your lips? would, they were clister-pipes for your sake.
[Trumpet.
The Moor,—I know his trumpet.
Cas.
'Tis truly so.
Des.
Let's meet him, and receive him.
Cas.
Lo, where he comes!
Enter Othello, and Attendants.
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:
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.
-- 410 --
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 am.
[Aside.
Oth.
Come, let's to the castle.
Now, 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 cittadel,
He is a good one, and his worthiness
Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona,
Once more well met at Cyprus.
[Exeunt Othello and Desdemona.
Manent Iago and Rodorigo.
Iago.
Do you meet me presently at the harbour. Come
thither, if thou be'st valiant; (as, they say, base men,
being in love, have then a nobility in their natures, more
than is native to them)—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
-- 411 --
delight shall she have to look on the Devil? (25) noteWhen
the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should
be again to inflame it, and to give Satiety a fresh appetite,
loveliness in favour, sympathy in years, manners,
and beauties; all which the Moor is defective in. Now,
for want of these requir'd conveniences, her delicate tenderness
will find it self abus'd, begin to heave the gorge,
disrelish and abhor the Moor; very nature will instruct
her in it, and compel her to some second choice. Now,
Sir, this granted, (as it is a most pregnant and unforc'd
position) who stands so eminent in the degree of this
fortune, as Cassio does? a knave very voluble; no further
conscionable, than in putting on the meer form of
civil and humane Seeming, for the better compassing of his
salt and most hidden loose affection; a slippery and subtile
knave, a finder of occasions, that has an eye can
stamp and counterfeit advantages, tho' true advantage
never present it self. A devilish knave! besides, the
knave is handsom, young, and hath all those requisites in
him, that folly and green minds look after. A pestilent
compleat knave! and the woman hath found him already.
Rod.
I cannot believe that of her, she's full of most
bless'd condition.
Iago.
Bless'd figs' end! the wine she drinks is made of
grapes. If she had been bless'd, she would never have
lov'd the Moor: bless'd pudding! didst thou not see her
paddle with the palm of his hand? didst not mark
that?
-- 412 --
Rod.
Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesie.
Iago.
Letchery, by this hand; an index, and obscure
prologue to the history of lust, and foul thoughts. They
met so near with their lips, that their breaths embrac'd
together. Villanous thoughts, Rodorigo! when these
mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the
master and main exercise, th' incorporate conclusion:
pish—But, 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 tainting 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,
happily, may strike at you. Provoke him, that he may;
for even out of that will I cause those of Cyprus to mutiny:
whose qualification shall come into no true taste
again, but by displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a
shorter journey to your desires, by the means I shall then
have to prefer them: And the impediments most profitably
removed, without which there was no expectation
of our prosperity.
Rod.
I will do this, if you can bring it to any opportunity.
Iago.
I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the cittadel.
I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewel.
Rod.
Adieu.
[Exit.
Manet Iago.
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, (though, peradventure,
I stand accountant for as great a sin;)
-- 413 --
But partly led to diet my revenge,
For that I do suspect, the lusty Moor
Hath leapt into my seat. The thought whereof
Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my 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 jealousie so strong,
That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do,(26) note
If this poor brach of Venice, whom I trace
For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,
I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,
Abuse him to the Moor in the right 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.
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
