SCENE II. Cyprus. A Bedchamber in the castle: Desdemona in bed
asleep; a light burning.
[Enter Othello.]
OTHELLO.
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, —
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! —
It is the cause. — Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
[Takes off his sword.]
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me: — but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It must needs wither: — I'll smell it on the tree. —
[Kissing her.]
O, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword! — One more, one more; —
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after. — One more, and this the last;
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love. — She wakes.
DESDEMONA.
Who's there? Othello?
OTHELLO.
Ay, Desdemona.
DESDEMONA.
Will you come to bed, my lord?
