May the winds blow till they have waken'd death! As hell's from heaven! If I were now to die, As if there were some monster in his thought Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something: Iago. My lord, you know I love you. I think thou dost; And, for I know thou art 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, REPUTATION. Good name, in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: [nothing Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something "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. THE TORTURES OF JEALOUSY Iago. Look, where he comes ! [Enter Othello Not poppy, nor mandragora,* Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Oth. To me? Ha ha! false to me? Iago. Why, how now, general? no more of that. Oth. 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. Iago. How now, my lord? Oth. What sense had Ì of her stolen hours of lust? I saw it not, thought it not, it harm'd not me: He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stolen, Oth. I had been happy, if the general camp, The mandrake has a soporific quality. Possessed'st. N That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! Oth. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore; Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof; [Taking him by the throat. Or, by the worth of mine eternal soul, HIS PATHETIC UPBRAIDING OF DESDEMONA. Des. Upon my knees, what doth your speech im Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves Should fear to seize thee: therefore be double-damn'd, Swear-thou art honest. Des. Heaven doth truly know it. Oth. Heaven truly knows, that thou art false as hell. Des. To whom, my lord? with whom? false? Oth. O Desdemona! away! away! away! How am I Des. Alas, the heavy day!-Why do you weep? Am I the occasion of these tears, my lord? If, haply, you my father do suspect, An instrument of this your calling back, Lay not your blame on me; if you have lost him, Oth. Had it pleased Heaven Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes; To point his slow unmoving finger at,- Yet could I bear that too; well, very well : But there, where I have garner'd up* my heart; Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads To knot and gender in!-Turn thy complexion there! Des. I hope 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, Treasured up. |