It is impossible, you should see this, Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys, But, sith I am enter'd in this cause so far,- And, being troubled with a raging tooth, There are a kind of men so loose of soul, That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs; In sleep I heard him say,-Sweet Desdemona, And then, sir, would he gripe, and wring my hand, Cry,-O, sweet creature! and then kiss me hard, As if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots, That grew upon my lips: then lay'd his leg Over my thigh, and sigh'd, and kiss'd; and then Cry'd,-Cursed fate! that gave thee to the Moor! Oth. O monstrous! monstrous! Iago. Nay, this was but his dream. Oth. But this denoted a foregone conclusion; 'Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream. Tago. And this may help to thicken other proofs, That do demonstrate thinly. Oth. I'll tear her all to pieces. Iago. Nay, but be wise: yet we see nothing done; She may be honest yet. Tell me but this,— Oth. I gave her such a one; 'twas my first gift. Oth. If it be that, Iago. If it be that, or any that was hers, It speaks against her, with the other proofs. Oth. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge! Now do I see 'tis true.-Look here, Iago; All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven: "Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell! Yield up, O love, thy crown, and hearted throne, To tyrannous hate! swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For 'tis of aspicks' tongues! Iago. Pray, be content. Oth. O, blood, Iago, blood! Iago. Patience, I say; your mind, perhaps, may change. Oth. Never, Iago. Like to the Pontick sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontick, and the Hellespont; Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up.-Now, by yond' marble heaven, In the due reverence of a sacred vow I here engage my words. Iago. [Kneels. Do not rise yet.— [Kneels. Witness, you ever-burning lights above! To wrong'd Othello's service! let him command, What bloody work soever. Oth. I greet thy love, Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance boun teous, And will upon the instant put thee to't: Within these three days let me hear thee say, That Cassio's not alive. Iago. My friend is dead; 'tis done, at your request: But let her live. Oth. Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her! Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. Iago. I am your own for ever. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. THE SAME. Enter Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown. Des. Do you know, sirrah, where lieutenant Cassio lies? Clo. I dare not say, he lies any where. Des. Why, man? Clo. He is a soldier; and for me to say a soldier lies, is stabbing. Des. Go to; Where lodges he? Clo. To tell you where he lodges, is to tell you where I lie. Des. Can any thing be made of this? Clo. I know not where he lodges; and for me to devise a lodging, and say-he lies here, or he lies there, were to lie in my own throat. Des. Can you enquire him out, and be edified by report? Clo. I will catechize the world for him; that is, make questions, and by them answer. Des. Seek him, bid him come hither: tell him, I have moved my lord in his behalf, and hope, all will be well. Clo. To do this, is within the compass of man's wit; and therefore I will attempt the doing it. [Exit. Des. Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia? Emil. I know not, madam. Des. Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse Full of cruzadoes. And, but my noble Moor As jealous creatures are, it were enough To put him to ill thinking. Emil. Is he not jealous? Des. Who, he? I think, the sun, where he was born, Drew all such humours from him. Emil. Look, where he comes. Des. I will not leave him now, till Cassio Enter Othello. Oth. Well, my good lady:-[Aside.] O, hardness to dissemble! How do you, Desdemona? Des. Well, my good lord. Oth. Give me your hand: This hand is moist, my lady. Des. It yet has felt no age, nor known no sorrow. Oth. This argues fruitfulness, and liberal heart; Hot, hot, and moist: This hand of yours requires For here's a young and sweating devil here, Des. You may, indeed, say so; |