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As ignorant as dirt; thou'st done a deed -
I care not for thy sword, I'll make thee known,
Though I loft twenty lives -- Help! help hoa! help!
The Moor hath killid my mistress. Murther, murther!


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Enter Montano, Gratiano, Jago, and others. Mon. What is the matter? how now, General:

Æmil. Oh, are you come, Jago? you have done well, That men must lay their murthers on your neck.

Gra. What is the matter?

Æmil. Disprove this villain, if thou be’st a man;
He says thou toldst him that his wife was false:
I know thou didst not, thou’rt not such a villain.
Speak, for my heart is full.

Jago. I told him what I thought; and told no more
Than what he found himself was apt and true.
Æmil. But did you ever tell him, she was false?
Jago. I did.

Æmil. You told a lie; an odious damned lie::
Upon my soul a lie; a wicked lie.
She false with Casio? did you say with Casio?

Jago. With Casio, mistress.; go to, charm your tongue.

Æmil. I will not charm my tongue ; I'm bound to speak, My mistress lies here murtherd in her bed. *

_murder'd in her bed.
Al. Oh heav'ns forefend!
Æmil. And your reports have set the murther on.
Oth. Nay, stare not, masters, it is true indeed.
Gra. 'Tis a strange truth.
Mon. Oh monstrous act!

Æmil. Villany! villany! villany!
I think upon't I think - I smell't

Oh villany!
I thought so then; I'll kill my self for grief,
Oh villany, villany!

Jago. What, are you mad? &c.


Jago. What, are you mad? 'I charge you get you home.

Æmil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak;
'Tis proper 1 obey him, but not now:
Perchance, Jago, I will ne'er go home.
Oth. Oh! oh! oh!

(Othello falls on the bed.
Æmil. Nay, lay thee down and roar :
For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent,
That e’er did lift up eye.

Oth. Oh she was foul!
I scarce did kaow you, uncle; there lyes your neice,
Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopd;
I know this act shews horrible and grim.

Gra. Poor Desdemona! I'm glad thy father's dead :
Thy match was mortal to him; and pure grief
Shore bis old thread in twain.

Did he live now,
This fight would make him do a desp'rate turn;
Yea, curse his better angel from his side,
And fall to reprobation,

Oth. 'Tis pitiful ; but yet Jago knows,
That she with Callio hath the act of shame
A thousand times committed. Callio confest it,
And she did gratifie bis amorous works,
With that recognizance and pledge of love
Which I first gave; I saw it in his hand;
It was an handkerchief, an antique token
My father gave my mother.

. Oh heav'n! oh heav'nly powers!
Jago. Come, hold your peace.
Æmil. 'Twill out, 'twill out ----

I peace!
No, I will speak as liberal as the ' air,
Let heav'n, and men, and devils, let them all,
All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

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Jago. Be wise and get you home,
Æmil. I will not.

[Jago offers to fiab bis wife. Gra. Fie, your sword apon a woman?

Æmil. Oh, thou dull Moor! that handkerchief thou speak’lt of
I found by fortune, and did give my husband;
For often, with a solemn earnestness,
(More than indeed belong'd to such a trifle,)
He begg’d of me to steal it.

Jago. Villanous whore !

Æmil. She give it Caffio? alas I found it, And I did give’t my husband.

Jago. Filth, thou lieft.

Æmil. By heav'n I do not, I do not, gentlemen :
Oh murd'rous coxcomb! what should such a fool
Do with so good a wife?

[Jago breaks through and wounds his wife, then runs out.
Oth. Are there no stones in heav'n,
But what serve for the thunder ? precious villain!

Gra. The woman falls; sure he hath kill'd his wife.
Æmil. Ay, ay; oh lay me by my mistress' fide.
Gra. Hie's gone, but his wife's killd.

Mon. 'Tis a notorious villain; take this weapon,
Which I recover'd have here from the Moor:
Come, guard the door without, let him not pafs,
But kill him rather; I'll after that same villain,
For 'tis a damned slave.

[Exeunt Moatano and Gratiano.

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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 boad, lady?
Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the fwan,
And die in musick; Willow, Willow, Willow -
Moor, she was chast, 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.
Oih. I have another weapon in this chamber,
It was a sword of Spain, the $ Ebro's temper;
Oh here it is : uncle, I must come forth.

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.

Gra. What is the matter?

Oth. Lo! I have a weapon: A better never did it self sustain Upon a soldier's thigh. I've seen the day, That with this little arm, and this good sword, I made my way through more impediments, Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast! Who can controul his fate? 'is not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d; Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, And very sea-mark of my utmost fail. Do you go back dismay'd ? 'tis a loft fear: Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now -- how doit thou look now? oh ill-starrd 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? \ In the first edition it is Isebroke's temper. Thence corrupted to Ice-brooks.

Ebro's temper : the waters of that river of Spain are particularly famous for tempering of steel. The finest arms in the world, the Catalonian Fuseés. Eeee 2


Ev'n like thy chastity. Oh cursed Nave!
Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heav'nly fight;
Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur,
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire
Oh Desdemona! Desdemona! dead, dead! ob, oh!


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Enter Lodovico, Cassio led in wounded, Montano, and Jago

prisoner, with officers.
Lod. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man?
Oth. That's be that was Othello: here I am.
Lod. Where is that viper? bring the villaio forth.

Oth. I look down tow'rds his feet; but that's a fable.
If that thou beest a devil, I cannot kill thee.

(Othello wounds Jago. Lod. Wrenchhis sword from him. Jago. I bleed, Sir, but not kill'd.

Oth. I am not sorry neither: I'd have thee live;
For in my sense, 'tis happiness to die.

Lod. Oh thou, Othello, that wast once so good,
Fala in the practice of a cursed llave,
What shall be said to thee?

Oth. Why any thing;
An honourable murth’rer, if you

will :
For nought I did in hate, but all in honour.

Lod. This wretch bath part confest his villany: Did you

and he consent in Casio's death ? Oth. Ay. Caf. Dear General, I never gave you cause.

Oth. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon: Will you, I pray, demand that demy-devil,


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