Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;
That which so often you did bid me steal.
Hast stol'n it from her?
No, faith; she let it drop by negligence,
And, to the advantage, I being here, took't up.
Look, here it is.
A good wench; give it me.
What will you do with't, that you have been so earnest
To have me filch it?
[Snatching it.] Why, what's that to you?
If it be not for some purpose of import,
Give't me again: poor lady, she'll run mad
When she shall lack it.
Be not acknown on't; I have use for it.
Go, leave me.
I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin,
And let him find it. Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ: this may do something.
The Moor already changes with my poison:
Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons,
Which at the first are scarce found to distaste,
But, with a little act upon the blood,
Burn like the mines of sulphur. — I did say so: —
Look, where he comes!
Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
Ha! ha! false to me?
Why, how now, general! no more of that.
Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the rack: —
I swear 'tis better to be much abus'd
Than but to know't a little.
How now, my lord!
What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust?
I saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me:
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.
I am sorry to hear this.
I had been happy if the general camp,
Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body,
So I had nothing known. O, now, for ever
Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell,
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
Is't possible, my lord? —
Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore; —
[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!
Is't come to this?
Make me to see't; or at the least so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge nor loop
To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life!
My noble lord, —
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
Greater than that.
O grace! O heaven defend me!
Are you a man? have you a soul or sense? —
God be wi' you; take mine office. — O wretched fool,
That liv'st to make thine honesty a vice! —
O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world,
To be direct and honest is not safe. —
I thank you for this profit; and from hence
I'll love no friend, sith love breeds such offense.
Nay, stay: — thou shouldst be honest.
I should be wise; for honesty's a fool,
And loses that it works for.
By the world,
I think my wife be honest, and think she is not;
I think that thou art just, and think thou art not:
I'll have some proof: her name, that was as fresh
As Dian's visage, is now begrim'd and black
As mine own face. — If there be cords or knives,
Poison or fire, or suffocating streams,
I'll not endure 't. — Would I were satisfied!
I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion:
I do repent me that I put it to you.
You would be satisfied?
Would! nay, I will.
And may: but how? how satisfied, my lord?
Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on, —
Behold her tupp'd?
Death and damnation! O!
It were a tedious difficulty, I think,
To bring them to that prospect: damn them then,
If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster
More than their own! What then? how then?
What shall I say? Where's satisfaction?
It is impossible you should see this
Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,
As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross
As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say,
If imputation and strong circumstances, —
Which lead directly to the door of truth, —
Will give you satisfaction, you may have't.
Give me a living reason she's disloyal.