William Shakespeare: Othello, Act III, Scene III
Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia
O, that's an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio, But I will have my lord and you again As friendly as you were.
Bounteous madam, Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, He's never any thing but your true servant.
I know't; I thank you. You do love my lord: You have known him long; and be you well assured He shall in strangeness stand no further off Than in a polite distance.
Ay, but, lady, That policy may either last so long, Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet, Or breed itself so out of circumstance, That, I being absent and my place supplied, My general will forget my love and service.
Do not doubt that; before Emilia here I give thee warrant of thy place: assure thee, If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it To the last article: my lord shall never rest; I'll watch him tame and talk him out of patience; His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift; I'll intermingle every thing he does With Cassio's suit: therefore be merry, Cassio; For thy solicitor shall rather die Than give thy cause away.
Enter Othello and Iago
Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it, That he would steal away so guilty-like, Seeing you coming.
How now, my lord! I have been talking with a suitor here, A man that languishes in your displeasure.
Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord, If I have any grace or power to move you, His present reconciliation take; For if he be not one that truly loves you, That errs in ignorance and not in cunning, I have no judgment in an honest face: I prithee, call him back.
Ay, sooth; so humbled That he hath left part of his grief with me, To suffer with him. Good love, call him back.
Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morn; On Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday morn: I prithee, name the time, but let it not Exceed three days: in faith, he's penitent; And yet his trespass, in our common reason— Save that, they say, the wars must make examples Out of their best—is not almost a fault To incur a private cheque. When shall he come? Tell me, Othello: I wonder in my soul, What you would ask me, that I should deny, Or stand so mammering on. What! Michael Cassio, That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time, When I have spoke of you dispraisingly, Hath ta'en your part; to have so much to do To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much,—
Why, this is not a boon; 'Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves, Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit To your own person: nay, when I have a suit Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed, It shall be full of poise and difficult weight And fearful to be granted.
I will deny thee nothing: Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, To leave me but a little to myself.
Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.
Think, my lord! By heaven, he echoes me, As if there were some monster in his thought Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something: I heard thee say even now, thou likedst not that, When Cassio left my wife: what didst not like? And when I told thee he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst 'Indeed!' And didst contract and purse thy brow together, As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain Some horrible conceit: if thou dost love me, Show me thy thought.
I think thou dost; And, for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty, And weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath, Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more: For such things in a false disloyal knave Are tricks of custom, but in a man that's just They are close delations, working from the heart That passion cannot rule.
Nay, yet there's more in this: I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words.
Good my lord, pardon me: Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false; As where's that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not? who has a breast so pure, But some uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-days and in session sit With meditations lawful?
Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest his ear A stranger to thy thoughts.
I do beseech you— Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, As, I confess, it is my nature's plague To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy Shapes faults that are not—that your wisdom yet, From one that so imperfectly conceits, Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance. It were not for your quiet nor your good, Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, To let you know my thoughts.
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands: But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on; that cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!
Poor and content is rich and rich enough, 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!
Why, why is this? Think'st thou I'ld make a lie of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt Is once to be resolved: exchange me for a goat, When I shall turn the business of my soul To such exsufflicate and blown surmises, Matching thy inference. 'Tis not to make me jealous To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays and dances well; Where virtue is, these are more virtuous: Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt; For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago; I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; And on the proof, there is no more but this,— Away at once with love or jealousy!
I am glad of it; for now I shall have reason To show the love and duty that I bear you With franker spirit: therefore, as I am bound, Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof. Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio; Wear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure: I would not have your free and noble nature, Out of self-bounty, be abused; look to't: I know our country disposition well; In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks They dare not show their husbands; their best conscience Is not to leave't undone, but keep't unknown.
She did deceive her father, marrying you; And when she seem'd to shake and fear your looks, She loved them most.
Why, go to then; She that, so young, could give out such a seeming, To seal her father's eyes up close as oak— He thought 'twas witchcraft—but I am much to blame; I humbly do beseech you of your pardon For too much loving you.
I' faith, I fear it has. I hope you will consider what is spoke Comes from my love. But I do see you're moved: I am to pray you not to strain my speech To grosser issues nor to larger reach Than to suspicion.
Should you do so, my lord, My speech should fall into such vile success As my thoughts aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend— My lord, I see you're moved.
Ay, there's the point: as—to be bold with you— Not to affect many proposed matches Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, Whereto we see in all things nature tends— Foh! one may smell in such a will most rank, Foul disproportion thoughts unnatural. But pardon me; I do not in position Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear Her will, recoiling to her better judgment, May fall to match you with her country forms And happily repent.
Farewell, farewell: If more thou dost perceive, let me know more; Set on thy wife to observe: leave me, Iago:
Why did I marry? This honest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.
My lord, I would I might entreat your honour To scan this thing no further; leave it to time: Though it be fit that Cassio have his place, For sure, he fills it up with great ability, Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile, You shall by that perceive him and his means: Note, if your lady strain his entertainment With any strong or vehement importunity; Much will be seen in that. In the mean time, Let me be thought too busy in my fears— As worthy cause I have to fear I am— And hold her free, I do beseech your honour.
This fellow's of exceeding honesty, And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard, Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings, I'ld whistle her off and let her down the wind, To pray at fortune. Haply, for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have, or for I am declined Into the vale of years,—yet that's not much— She's gone. I am abused; and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapour of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others' uses. Yet, 'tis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base; 'Tis destiny unshunnable, like death: Even then this forked plague is fated to us When we do quicken. Desdemona comes:
Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia
If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! I'll not believe't.
How now, my dear Othello! Your dinner, and the generous islanders By you invited, do attend your presence.
'Faith, that's with watching; 'twill away again: Let me but bind it hard, within this hour It will be well.
Your napkin is too little:
He puts the handkerchief from him; and it drops
Let it alone. Come, I'll go in with you.
Exeunt Othello and Desdemona
I am glad I have found this napkin: This was her first remembrance from the Moor: My wayward husband hath a hundred times Woo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token, For he conjured her she should ever keep it, That she reserves it evermore about her To kiss and talk to. I'll have the work ta'en out, And give't Iago: what he will do with it Heaven knows, not I; I nothing but to please his fantasy.
What handkerchief? Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona; That which so often you did bid me steal.
No, 'faith; she let it drop by negligence. And, to the advantage, I, being here, took't up. Look, here it is.
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 owedst yesterday.
Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the rack: I swear 'tis better to be much abused Than but to know't a little.
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 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 dead clamours counterfeit, Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore, 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 waked wrath!
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!
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 amazed; For nothing canst thou to damnation add Greater than that.
O grace! O heaven forgive me! Are you a man? have you a soul or sense? God be wi' you; take mine office. O wretched fool. That livest 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 offence.
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 begrimed and black As mine own face. If there be cords, or knives, Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams, I'll not endure it. 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?
And may: but, how? how satisfied, my lord? Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on— Behold her topp'd?
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.
I do not like the office: But, sith I am enter'd in this cause so far, Prick'd to't by foolish honesty and love, I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately; And, being troubled with a raging tooth, I could not sleep. There are a kind of men so loose of soul, That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs: One of this kind is Cassio: In sleep I heard him say 'Sweet Desdemona, Let us be wary, let us hide our loves;' And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand, Cry 'O sweet creature!' and then kiss me hard, As if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots That grew upon my lips: then laid his leg Over my thigh, and sigh'd, and kiss'd; and then Cried 'Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!'
Nay, but be wise: yet we see nothing done; She may be honest yet. Tell me but this, Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief Spotted with strawberries in your wife's hand?
I know not that; but such a handkerchief— I am sure it was your wife's—did I to-day See Cassio wipe his beard with.
O, that the slave had forty thousand lives! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, Iago; All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 'Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell! Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For 'tis of aspics' tongues!
Never, Iago: Like to the Pontic sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont, Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven,
In the due reverence of a sacred vow I here engage my words.
Do not rise yet.
Witness, you ever-burning lights above, You elements that clip us round about, Witness that here Iago doth give up The execution of his wit, hands, heart, To wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command, And to obey shall be in me remorse, What bloody business ever.
I greet thy love, Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous, And will upon the instant put thee to't: Within these three days let me hear thee say That Cassio's not alive.
Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her! Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.