Oth.
I am not valiant neither;
But every puny whipster gets my sword.
But why should honour out-live honesty?
Let it go all.

Æmil.
What did thy Song bode, lady?
Hark, can'st thou hear me? I will play the swan,
And die in musick. Willow, Willow, Willow—
Moor, she was chaste; she lov'd thee, cruel Moor;
So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true;
So speaking as I think, alas, I die. [Æmilia dies.

Oth.
I have another weapon in this chamber,
It was a sword of Spain, ^{4 note}

Gra. [within.]
If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear;
Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer.

Oth.
Look in upon me then, and speak with me,
Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. Re-enter Gratiano.

Gra.
What is the matter?

Oth.
Lo! I have a weapon:
A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier's thigh. I've seen the day,
That with this little arm, and this good sword,
I've made my way thro' more impediments,
Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast!
Who can controul his fate? 'tis not so now.
Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd;
Here is my journey's end, here is my Butt,
The very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismay'd? 'tis a lost fear:
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,

And he retires. Where should Othello go?
Now—how dost thou look now? oh ill-starr'd Wench!
Pale as thy smock! When we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heav'n,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my Girl,
Ev'n like thy chastity. O cursed slave!
Whip me, ye Devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight;
Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur,
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire.
Oh Desdemona! Desdemona! dead, dead! oh, oh!

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