Othello

by William Shakespeare

I follow him to serve my turn upon him: We cannot all be masters, nor all masters 45 Cannot be truly follow’d.

In following him, I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end:

Call up her father, Rouse him:—make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen, And, though he in a fertile climate dwell, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, 75 Yet throw such changes of vexation on’t As it may lose some color.

Zounds, sir, you’re robb’d; for shame, put on your gown; Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul; Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is tupping your white ewe.

your daughter and the 125 Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

Your daughter,—if you have not given her leave,— I say again, hath made a gross revolt; Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes 145 In an extravagant and wheeling stranger Of here and everywhere.

Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds By what you see them act.—Are there not charms By which the property of youth and maidhood May be abused?

O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow’d my daughter? 75 Damn’d as thou art, thou hast enchanted her; For I’ll refer me to all things of sense, If she in chains of magic were not bound, Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy, So opposite to marriage that she shunn’d

That thou hast practis’d on her with foul charms; Abus’d her delicate youth with drugs or minerals That weaken motion:—I’ll have’t disputed on; ’Tis probable, and palpable to thinking. I therefore apprehend and do attach thee 90 For an abuser of the world, a practiser Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.—

She is abused, stol’n from me, and corrupted By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks; 70 For nature so preposterously to err, Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, Sans witchcraft could not.

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, 100 I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic,— For such proceeding I am charged withal,— I won his daughter.

Against all rules of nature; and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell, Why this should be. I therefore vouch again, 115 That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood, Or with some dram conjur’d to this effect, He wrought upon her.

If you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office I do hold of you, Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life.

She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d; And I lov’d her that she did pity them.

If virtue no delighted beauty lack, Your son-in-law is far more fair than black.

Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see: She has deceiv’d her father, and may thee.

Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour Of love, of worldly matters and direction, To spend with thee: we must obey the time.

if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport.

That he is too familiar with his wife:— He hath a person, and a smooth dispose, To be suspected; fram’d to make women false.

Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens, 125 Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.

She that was ever fair and never proud; Had tongue at will and yet was never loud; Never lack’d gold and yet went never gay;

Fled from her wish, and yet said, “Now I may”; She that, being anger’d, her revenge being nigh, Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly; She that in wisdom never was so frail To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail;

She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind; See suitors following and not look behind; She was a wi...

The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!

Or, failing so, yet that I put the Moor At least into a jealousy so strong 310 That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do,— If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip; Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb,—

Come, 10 my dear love,— The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue; That profit’s yet to come ’tween me and you.—

For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl: He that stirs next to carve for his own rage 165 Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.— Silence that dreadful bell; it frights the isle From her propriety.—What

Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.—My reputation, Iago, my reputation!

Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit and lost without deserving:

Our general’s wife is now the general;—I may say so in this respect, for that he hath 305 devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces:—confess

Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune, And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear,— That she repeals him for her body’s lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, 345 She shall undo her credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch; And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague To spy into abuses, and of my jealousy Shape faults that are not,—that your wisdom yet, From one that so imperfectly conceits,

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on: that cuckold lives in bliss 190 Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o’er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough; 195 But riches fineless is as poor as winter To him that ever fears he shall be poor;— Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy!

Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear, Her will, recoiling to her better judgement, May fall to match you with her country forms, And happily repent.

O curse of marriage, 300 That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites!

’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death: Even then this forkèd plague is fated to us When we do quicken.

I slept the next night well, was free and merry; I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips: He that is robb’d, not wanting what is stol’n, Let him not know’t and he’s not robb’d at all.

OTHELLO Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;— 400 [Taking him by the throat.] Be sure of it. Give me the ocular proof; Or, by the worth of man’s eternal soul, Thou hadst been better have been born a dog Than answer my wak’d wrath!

OTHELLO 410 If thou dost slander her and torture me, Never pray more; abandon all remorse; On horror’s head horrors accumulate; Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amaz’d; For nothing canst thou to damnation add 415 Greater than that.

A man that all his time Hath founded his good fortunes on your love, Shar’d dangers with you,—

‘Tis not a year or two shows us a man: They are all but stomachs and we all but food: They eat us hungerly, and when they are full, They belch us.—Look

But jealous souls will not be answer’d so; They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they are jealous: ’tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.

OTHELLO Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm! It is hypocrisy against the devil: 10 They that mean virtuously and yet do so, The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.

Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night; for she shall not live: no, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.—O,

OTHELLO O devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears, 260 Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.— Out of my sight!

OTHELLO Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.

OTHELLO Are not you a strumpet? DESDEMONA No, as I am a Christian: If to preserve this vessel for my lord 95 From any other foul unlawful touch Be not to be a strumpet, I am none. OTHELLO What, not a whore?

I cry you mercy then: I took you for that cunning whore of Venice That married with Othello.—You, mistress, That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, 105 And keep the gate of hell!

Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell And have their palates both for sweet and sour, 100 As husbands have.