Othello. William Shakespeare
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greeting to the citadel:
This likewise is a friend.
CASSIO
See for the news.
[Exit Gentleman.]
Good ancient, you are welcome:—[To Emilia.] Welcome, mistress:—
Let it not gall your patience, good Iago,
That I extend my manners; ‘tis my breeding
That gives me this bold show of courtesy.
[Kissing her.]
IAGO
Sir, would she give you so much of her lips
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,
You’d have enough.
DESDEMONA
Alas, she has no speech.
IAGO
In faith, too much;
I find it still when I have list to sleep:
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart,
And chides with thinking.
EMILIA
You have little cause to say so.
IAGO
Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,
Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens,
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,
Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.
DESDEMONA
O, fie upon thee, slanderer!
IAGO
Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk:
You rise to play, and go to bed to work.
EMILIA
You shall not write my praise.
IAGO
No, let me not.
DESDEMONA
What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?
IAGO
O gentle lady, do not put me to’t;
For I am nothing if not critical.
DESDEMONA
Come on, assay—There’s one gone to the harbor?
IAGO
Ay, madam.
DESDEMONA
I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.—
Come, how wouldst thou praise me?
IAGO
I am about it; but, indeed, my invention
Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize,—
It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours,
And thus she is deliver’d.
If she be fair and wise,—fairness and wit,
The one’s for use, the other useth it.
DESDEMONA
Well prais’d! How if she be black and witty?
IAGO
If she be black, and thereto have a wit,
She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit.
DESDEMONA
Worse and worse.
EMILIA
How if fair and foolish?
IAGO
She never yet was foolish that was fair;
For even her folly help’d her to an heir.
DESDEMONA
These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i’ the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that’s foul and foolish?
IAGO
There’s none so foul and foolish thereunto,
But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.
DESDEMONA
O heavy ignorance!—thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed,—one that, in the authority of her merit, did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?
IAGO
She that was ever fair and never proud;
Had tongue at will and yet was never loud;
Never lack’d gold and yet went never gay;
Fled from her wish, and yet said, “Now I may”;
She that, being anger’d, her revenge being nigh,
Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly;
She that in wisdom never was so frail
To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail;
She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind;
See suitors following and not look behind;
She was a wight, if ever such wight were;—
DESDEMONA
To do what?
IAGO
To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.
DESDEMONA
O most lame and impotent conclusion!—Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband.—How say you, Cassio? is he not a most profane and liberal counsellor?
CASSIO
He speaks home, madam: you may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar.
IAGO
[Aside.] He takes her by the palm: ay, well said, whisper: with as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true; ‘tis so, indeed: if such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt to play the sir in. Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy! ‘tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips? Would they were clyster-pipes for your sake!
[Trumpet within.]
The Moor! I know his trumpet.
CASSIO
‘Tis truly so.
DESDEMONA
Let’s meet him, and receive him.
CASSIO
Lo, where he comes!
[Enter Othello and Attendants.]
OTHELLO
O my fair warrior!
DESDEMONA
My dear Othello!
OTHELLO
It gives me wonder great as my content
To see you here before me. O my soul’s joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken’d death!
And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven! If it were now to die,
‘Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute