Othello

by William Shakespeare

If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken’d death!

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

For she had eyes and chose me.

He that is robb’d, not wanting what is stol’n, Let him not know’t and he’s not robb’d at all.

To beguile many and be beguil’d by one:—

Leave procreants alone and shut the door;

I understand a fury in your words, But not the words.

I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee:—no way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.