Page:Shakespeare - First Folio Faithfully Reproduced, Methuen, 1910.djvu/847

Rh Othe. Mistris.

Des. My Lord.

Othe. What would you with her, Sir?

Lod. Who I, my Lord?

Othe. I, you did wish, that I would make her turne: Sir, she can turne, and turne: and yet go on And turne againe. And she can weepe, Sir, weepe. And she's obedient: as you say obedient. Very obedient: proceed you in your teares. Concerning this Sir, (oh well-painted passion) I am commanded home: get you away: Ile send for you anon. Sir I obey the Mandate, And will returne to Venice. Hence, auaunt: Cassio shall haue my Place. And Sir, to night I do entreat, that we may sup together. You are welcome Sir to Cyprus. Goates, and Monkeys.

Lod. Is this the Noble Moore, whom our full Senate Call all in all sufficient? Is this the Nature Whom Passion could not shake? Whose solid virtue The shot of Accident, nor dart of Chance Could neither graze, nor pierce?

Iago. He is much chang'd.

Lod. Are his wits safe? Is he not light of Braine?

Iago. He's that he is: I may not breath my censure. What he might be: if what he might, he is not, I would to heauen he were.

Lod. What? Strike his wife?

Iago. 'Faith that was not so well: yet would I knew That stroke would proue the worst.

Lod. Is it his vse? Or did the Letters, worke vpon his blood, And new create his fault?

Iago. Alas, alas: It is not honestie in me to speake What I haue seene, and knowne. You shall obserue him, And his owne courses will [denote] him so, That I may saue my speech: do but go after And marke how he continues.

Lod. I am sorry that I am deceiu'd in him.

Scena Secunda.

Othe. You haue seene nothing then?

Æmil. Nor euer heard: nor euer did suspect.

Othe. Yes, you haue seene Cassio, and she together.

Æmi. But then I saw no harme: and then I heard, Each syllable that breath made vp betweene them.

Othe. What? Did they neuer whisper?

Æmil. Neuer my Lord.

Othe. Nor send you out o'th'way?

Æmil. Neuer.

Othe. To fetch her Fan, her Gloues, her Mask, nor nothing?

Æmil. Neuer my Lord.

Othe. That's strange.

Æmil. I durst (my Lord) to wager, she is honest: Lay downe my Soule at stake: If you thinke other, Remoue your thought. It doth abuse your bosome: If any wretch haue put this in your head, Let Heauen requit it with the Serpents curse, For if she be not honest, chaste, and true, There's no man happy. The purest of their Wiues Is foule as Slander.

Othe. Bid her come hither: go. She saies enough: yet she's a simple Baud That cannot say as much. This is a subtile Whore: A Closset Locke and Key of Villanous Secrets, And yet she'le kneele, and pray: I haue seene her do't.

Des. My Lord, what is your will?

Othe. Pray you Chucke come hither.

Des. What is your pleasure?

Oth. Let me see your eyes: looke in my face.

Des. What horrible Fancie's this?

Othe. Some of your Function Mistris: Leaue Procreants alone, and shut the doore: Cough, or cry hem; if any body come: Your Mystery, your Mystery: May dispatch.

Des. Vpon my knee, what doth your speech import? I vnderstand a Fury in your words.

Othe. Why? What art thou?

Des. Your wife my Lord: your true and loyall wife.

Othello. Come sweare it: damne thy selfe, least being like one of Heauen, the diuells themselues should feare to ceaze thee. Therefore be double damn'd: sweare thou art honest.

Des. Heauen doth truely know it.

Othe. Heauen truely knowes, that thou art false as hell.

Des. To whom my Lord? With whom? How am I false?

Othe. Ah Desdemon, away, away, away.

Des. Alas the heauy day: why do you weepe? Am I the motiue of these teares my Lord? If happely you my Father do suspect, An Instrument of this your calling backe, Lay not your blame on me: if you haue lost him, I haue lost him too.

Othe. Had it pleas'd Heauen, To try me with Affliction, had they rain'd All kind of Sores, and Shames on my bare-head: Steep'd me in pouertie to the very lippes. Giuen to Captiuitie, me, and my vtmost hopes, I should haue found in some place of my Soule A drop of patience. But alas, to make me The fixed Figure for the time of Scorne, To point his slow, and mouing finger at. Yet could I beare that too, well, very well: But there where I haue garnerd vp my heart, Where either I must liue, or beare no life, The Fountaine from the which my currant runnes, Or else dries vp: to be discarded thence, Or keepe it as a Cesterne, for foule Toades To knot and gender in. Turne thy complexion there: Patience, thou young and Rose-lip'd Cherubin, I heere looke grim as hell.

Des. I hope my Noble Lord esteemes me honest.

Othe. Oh I, as Sommer Flyes are in the Shambles, That quicken euen with blowing. Oh thou weed: Who art so louely faire, and smell'st so sweete, That the Sense akes at thee, Would thou had'st neuer bin borne.

Des. Alas, what ignorant sin haue I committed?

Othe. Was this faire Paper? This most goodly Booke Made to write Whore vpon? What commited,