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All kinds of sörés, and shames, on my bare head;
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips ;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes ;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience: but (alas !) to make me
A fixed figure, for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at,-
Yet could I bear that too, well, very

But there, where I have garner'd up my heart ;*
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence !
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads
To knot and gender in :-turn thy complexion

there! Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin ; Ay, there, look grim as hell ! Des. I hopė, my noble lord esteems me honest.

Oth. O, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet, That the sense aches at thee.-'Would, thou had'st

ne'er been born! Des. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed ?

Oth. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write whore upon? What committed! Committed -0 thou publick commoner! I should make very forges of my cheeks, That would to cinders burn up modesty, Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed ! Heaven stops thë nose at it, and the moon winks ;

garner'd up my heart;] That is, treasured up: the garner and the fountain are improperly conjoined.

turn thy complexion there! &c.] At such an object do thou, patience, thyself change colour ; at this do thou, even thou, rosy cherub as thou art, look as grim as hell.

The bawdy wind, that kissés all it meets,
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it: What committed !
Impudent strumpet!

By heaven, you do me wrong.
Oth. Are not you a strumpet?

No, as I am a christian :
If to preserve this vessel for my lord,
From any other foul unlawful touch,
Be-not to be a strumpet, I am none.

Oth. What, not a whore?

No, as I shall be saved.
Oth. Is it possible?
Des. O, heaven forgive us !


cry you mercy, then : I took you for that cunning whore of Venice, That married with Othello.--You, mistress,

Re-enter EMILIA.

That have the office opposite to Saint Peter,
And keep the gate of hell; You! you! ay, you!
We have done our course;



your pains ; I pray you, turn the key, and keep our counsel.

[Exit. Emil. Alas, what does this gentleman conceive? How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady?

Des. 'Faith, half asleep.
Emil. Good madam, what's the matter with my

lord ?
Des. With who?

Why, with my lord, madam. Des. Who is thy lord ? Emil.

He that is yours, sweeet lady. Des. I have none: Do not talk to me, Emilia ; I cannot weep; nor answer I have none,

But what should go by water. Pr’ythee, to-night Lay on

on my bed my wedding sheets,-remember; And call thy husband hither. Emil.

Here is a change, indeed!

[Exit. Des. 'Tis meet I should be us'd so, very meet. How have I been behav'd, that he might stick The small’st opinion on my great'st abuse ?

Re-enter EMILIA, with Iago. Iago. What is your pleasure, madam? How is it

with you? Des. I cannot tell. Those, that do teach young

Do it with gentle means, and easy

He might have chid me so; for, in good faith,
I am a child to chiding.

What's the matter, lady?
Emil. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhor'd her,
Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,
As true hearts cannot bear.

Des. Am I that name, Iago ?

What name, fair lady? Des. Such as, she says, my lord did say

Emil. He call'd her, whore; a beggar, in his drink,
Could not have laid such terms upon his callet.

Iago. Why did he so?
Des. I do not know; I am sure, I am none such.
Iago. Do not weep, do not weep; Alas, the day!

Emil. Has she forsook so many noble matches,
Her father, and her country, and her friends,
To be call'd-whore? would it not make one weep?

Des. It is my wretched fortune.




upon his callet.] Callet is a lewd woman ; so called (says Dr. Grey) from the French calote, which was a sort of head. dress worn by country girls,


Beshrew him for it! How comes this trick upon him? Des.

Nay, heaven doth know.
Emil. I will be hang’d, if some eternal villain,
Some busy and insinuating rogue,
Some cogging cozening slave, to get some office,
Have not devis’d this slander; I'lĩ be hang'd, else.

Iago. Fye, there is no such man; it is impossible.
Des. If any such there be, heaven pardon him!
Emil. A halter pardon him ! and hell gnaw his

bones! Why should he call her, whore? who keeps her

company ? What place? what time? what form ? what likeli

hood? The Moor's abus'd by some most villainous knave, Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow :O, heaven, that such companions? thou'dst unfold; And put in every honest hand a whip, To lash the rascal naked through the world, Even from the east to the west! Iago.

Speak within door.
Emil. O, fye upon him ! some such squire he was,
That turn’d your wit the seamy side without,'
And made you to suspect me with the Moor.

Iago. You are a fool; go to.

O good Iago,
What shall I do to win my lord again?
Good friend, go to him ; for, by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel :-
If e’er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,


7such companions-] Companion, in the time of Shakspeare, was used as a word of contempt, in the same sense as fellow is at this day.

8 Speak within door.] Do not clamour so as to be heard beyond the house.


seamy side without,] That is, inside outo


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Either in discourse of thought, or actual deed ;
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did,
And ever will,—though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement,- love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love. I cannot say whore;
It does abhor me, now I speak the word ;
To do the act that might the addition earn,
Not the world's mass of vanity could make me.

Iago. I pray you, be content; 'tis but his humour;
The business of the state does him offence,
And he does chide with you.

If 'twere no other,
Iago. It is but so, I warrant you. [Trumpets-
Hark, how these instruments summon to supper!
And the great messengers of Venice stay:
Go in, and weep not: all things shall be well.



How now, Roderigo ?

Rod. I do not find, that thou deal’st justly with



Iago. What in the contrary.

Rod. Every day thou doff'st me with some device, Iago; and rather (as it seems to me now,) keep'st from me all conveniency, than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will, indeed, no longer endure it: Nor am I yet pursuaded, to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered.

Iago. Will you hear me, Roderigo ?

Rod, 'Faith, I have heard too much; for your words, and performances, are no kin together.

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