Des.
My lord, what is your will?

Oth.
Pray you, chuck, come hither.

Des.
What is your pleasure?

Oth.
Let me see your eyes; look in my face.

Des.
What horrible fancy's this?

Oth.
Some of your function, mistress,
Leave procreants alone, and shut the door,
Cough, or cry hem, if any body come.
Your mystery, your mystery; nay dispatch. [Exit Æmilia.

Des.
Upon my knee, what doth your speech import?
I understand a fury in your words,
‡ ^noteBut not your words.

Oth.
Why? what art thou?

Des.
Your wife, my lord; your true and loyal wife.

Oth.
Come swear it; damn thy self; lest being like one
Of heav'n, the devils themselves should fear to seize thee.
Therefore be double damn'd; swear thou art honest.

Des.
Heav'n doth truly know it.

Oth.
Heav'n truly knows,

That thou art false as hell.

Des.
To whom, my lord?
With whom? how am I false?

Oth.
Ah, Desdemon, away, away, away—

Des.
Alas the heavy day! why do you weep?
Am I the motive of these tears, my lord?
If haply you my father do suspect
An instrument of this your calling back,
Lay not your blame on me; if you've lost him,
Why I have lost him too.

Oth.
Had it pleas'd heav'n
To try me with affliction, had he rain'd
All kind of sores and shames on my bare head,
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips,
Giv'n to captivity me and my hopes;
I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience. But alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the hand of scorn
To point his slow and moving finger at—
Yet could I bear that too, well, very well.
But there where I have garner'd up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life,
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence;
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads
To knot and gender in. Turn thy complexion there,
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin;
I here look grim as hell.

Des.
I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.

Oth.
Oh ay, as summer-flies are in the shambles,
That quicken ev'n with blowing. Oh thou weed!
Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,
That the sense akes at thee—
Would thou had'st ne'er been born!

Des.
Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?

Oth.
Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write whore upon? What, committed?
Committed? Oh, thou publick commoner!
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cynders burn up modesty,
Did but I speak thy deeds. What, committed?
Heav'n stops the nose at it, and the moon winks;
The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth
And will not hear't. What, committed?—

Des.
By heav'n, you do me wrong.

Oth.
Are not you a strumpet?

Des.
No, as I am a christian.
If to preserve this vessel for my lord
From any other foul unlawful touch,
Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.

Oth.
What, not a whore?

Des.
No, as I shall be saved.

Oth.
Is't possible?

Des.
Oh heav'n forgive us.

Oth.
I cry you mercy, then.
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice,
That married with Othello—

Previous section

Next section