Oth.
What is the matter here?

Mont.
I bleed still, I am hurt, but not to th' death.

Oth.
Hold for your lives.

Jago.
Hold ho! lieutenant—Sir—Montano—Gentlemen—

Have you forgot all place of sense and duty?
The General speaks to you—hold, hold, for shame—

Oth.
Why how now ho? from whence ariseth this
Are we turn'd Turks? and to our selves do that
Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?
For christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl;
He that stirs next to carve for his own rage,
Holds his soul light: he dies upon his motion.
Silence that dreadful bell, it frights the isle
From her propriety. What is the matter?
Honest Jago, that looks dead with grieving,
Speak: who began this? on thy love I charge thee.

Jago.
I do not know; friends all, but now, even now
In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom
Divesting them for bed; and then, but now—
As if some planet had unwitted men,
Sword out, and tilting one at other's breasts,
In opposition bloody. I can't speak
Any beginning to this peevish odds,
And would in action glorious I had lost
Those legs that brought me to a part of it!

Oth.
How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot?

Cas.
I pray you pardon me, I cannot speak.

Oth.
Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil:
The gravity and stillness of your youth
The world hath noted. And your name is great
In mouths of wisest censure. What's the matter,
That you unlace your reputation thus,
And spend your rich opinion, for the name
Of a night-brawler? give me answer to it.

Mont.
Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger;
Your officer, Jago, can inform you,
While I spare speech, which something now offends me,

Of all that I do know, nor know I ought
By me that's said or done amiss this night,
Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice,
And to defend our selves it be a sin,
When violence assails us.

Oth.
Now, by heav'n,
My blood begins my safer guides to rule,
And passion, having my best judgment choler'd,
Assays to lead the way. If I once stir,
Or do but lift this arm, the best of you
Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know
How this foul rout began? who set it on?
And he that is approv'd in his offence,
Tho' he had twinn'd with me both at a birth,
Shall lose me. What, in a town of war,
Yet wild, the peoples hearts brim-full of fear,
To manage private and domestick quarrel?
In night, and on the court and guard of safety?
'Tis monstrous. Say Jago, who began't?

Mont.
If partially affin'd, or leagu'd in office,
Thou dost deliver more or less than truth,
Thou art no soldier.

Jago.
Touch me not so near:
I'd rather have this tongue cut from my mouth,
Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio.
Yet I perswade my self, to speak the truth
Shall nothing wrong him. Thus 'tis, General:
Montano and my self being in speech,
There comes a fellow crying out for help,
And Cassio following with determin'd sword,
To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman
Steps in to Cassio, and intreats his pause;
My self the crying fellow did pursue;

Lest by his clamour (as it so fell out)
The town might fall in fright. He, swift of foot,
Out-ran my purpose: I return'd the rather
For that I heard the clink and fall of swords,
And Cassio high in oath; which 'till to-night
I ne'er might say before. When I came back,
(For this was brief) I found them close together
At blow and thrust, even as again they were
When you your self did part them.
More of this matter cannot I report.
But men are men; the best sometimes forget;
Tho' Cassio did some little wrong to him,
As men in rage strike those that wish them best,
Yet surely Cassio, I believe, receiv'd
From him that fled some strange indignity,
Which patience could not pass.

Oth.
I know, Jago,
Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter,
Making it light to Cassio. Cassio I love thee,
But never more be officer of mine. Enter Desdemona attended.
Look if my gentle love be not rais'd up:
I'll make thee an example.

Des.
What's the matter?

Oth.
All is well, sweeting; come, away to bed.
Sir, for your hurts, my self will be your surgeon.
Lead him off:
Jago, look with care about the town,
And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted.
Come, Desdemona, 'tis the soldier's life,
To have their balmy slumbers wak'd with strife. [Exeunt.

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