Rot half a grain a day! he lyes to th' heart.
She was too fond of her moft filthy bargain.

Oth. Hah!

Emil. Do thy worst:

This deed of thine is no more worthy heav'n,

Than thou waft worthy her.

Oth. Peace, you were best.

Emil. Thou haft not half that power to do me harm,

As I have to be hurt: oh gull! oh dolt!

As ignorant as dirt! thou'ft done a deed

I care not for thy fword, I'll make thee known,
Though I loft twenty lives

help!

Help! help, hoa !

The Moor hath kill'd my mistress. Murther, murther!

Enter Montano, Gratiane, Iago, and others.

Mon. What is the matter? how now, General ? Emil. Oh, are you come, Iago? you have done well,

That men must lay their murthers on your neck.
Gra. What is the matter?

Emil. Difprove this villain, if thou be'ft a man ;
He fays,
ou toldft him that his wife was falfe:
I know, thou didst not; thou'rt not such a villain.
Speak, for my heart is full.

Iago. I told him what I thought; and told no more, Than what he found himself was apt and true.

Emil But did you ever tell him, fhe was falfe?
Iago. I did.

Emil. You told a lye; an odious, damned, lye: : Upon my foul, a lye; a wicked lye.

She falfe with Caho? did you fay, with Caffio? Jago. With Caffio, mitrefs; go to, charm your tongue.

Emil. I will not charm my tongue; I'm bound to speak;

My mistress lies here murther'd in her bed,

All. Oh heavens forefend !

Emil. And your reports have fet the murther on.

Oth.

Oth. Nay, ftare not, masters; it is true, indeed,
Gra. 'Tis a ftrange truth.

Mon. Oh monftrous act!

Emil. Villany! villany! villany!

I think upon't-I think-I fmell't-Oh villany!
I thought fo then; I'll kill myself for grief ; —
Oh villany, villany!

Iago. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you

home.

Emil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak; 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now:

Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home.
Oth. Oh! oh! oh!

[Othello falls on the bed. Emil. Nay, lay thee down and roar : For thou haft kill'd the sweetest Innocent,

That e'er did lift up eye.

Oth. Oh, fhe was foul!

[Rifing.

I fcarce did know you, Uncle; there lies your Niece, Whofe breath, indeed, thefe hands have newly ftop'd; I know, this act fhews horrible and grim.

Gra. Poor Defdemona ! I'm glad, thy father's dead:
Thy match was mortal to him; and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,
This fight would make him do a desp❜rate turn;
Yea, curfe his better Angel from his fide,
And fall to reprobation.

Oth. 'Tis pitiful; but yet lago knows,
That the with Caffio had the act of shame
A thousand times committed. Cafio confeft it;
And she did gratify his amorous works,
With that recognizance and pledge of love
Which I first gave her; I faw it in his hand;
It was an handkerchief, an antique token
My father gave my mother.

Emil. Oh heav'n! oh heav'nly Powers!
Iago. Come, hold your peace.

Amil. 'Twill out, 'twill out-I, peace!

No, I will speak as liberal as the air;

Let heav'n, and men, and devils, let them all,
All, all cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

lago.

lago. Be wife, and get you home.

Emil. I will not.

[Lago offers to ftab his wife.

Gra. Fie, your fword upon a woman?

Emil. Oh, thou dull Moor! that handkerchief, thou fpeak'st of,

I found by fortune, and did give my husband;
For often, with a folemn earneftness,

(More than, indeed, belong'd to such a trifle,)
He begg'd of me to steal it.

lago. Villanous whore!

Emil. She give it Caffio? alas, I found it, And I did giv't my husband.

Iago. Filth, thou lieft.

Emil. By heav'n, I do not; I do not, gentlemen: Oh murd'rous coxcomb! what fhould fuch a fool Do with fo good a wife?

Iago breaks through and wounds his wife, then

runs out.

Oth. Are there no ftones in heav'n,

But what serve for the thunder? precious villain!
Gra. The woman falls; fure, he has kill'd his wife.
Emil. Ay, ay; oh, lay me by my mistress' fide.
Gra. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd.

Mon. 'Tis a notorious villain; take this weapon,
Which I have here recover'd from the Moor:
Come, guard the door without, let him not pass,
But kill him rather; I'll after that fame villain,
For 'tis a damned flave.

[Exeunt Mon, and Gra,

Oth. I am not valiant neither;
But every puny whipfter gets my fword.
But why should honour out-live honesty?
Let it go all.

Emil. What did thy Song boad, lady?

Hark, can't thou hear me? I will play the fwan,
And die in mufick; Willow, Willow, Willow-
Moor, she was chaft; fhe lov'd thee, cruel Moor;
So come my foul to blifs, as I fpeak true;
So fpeaking as I think, alas, I die.

[Æmilia dies.

Oth. I have another weapon in this chamber,
VOL. VIII.

Р

It

It was a fword of Spain, the Ebro's temper;
Oh, here it is: Uncle, I must come forth.

Gra. within.] If thou attempt it, it will coft thee
dear;

Thou haft no weapon, and perforce must fuffer.

Oth. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will affault thee.

Re-enter Gratiano.

Gra. What is the matter?

Oth. Lo! I have a weapon:
A better never did itself sustain

Upon a foldier's thigh. I've feen the day,
That with this little arm, and this good fword,
I've made my way thro' more impediments,
Than twenty times your ftop. But, oh vain boast!
Who can controul his fate? 'tis not fo now.
Be not afraid, tho' you do fee me weapon'd;
Here is my journey's end, here is my Butt,
The very fea-mark of my utmost fail.
Do you go back difmay'd? 'tis a loft fear:
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires. Where should Othello go?
Now

Wench!

how doft thou look now? oh ill-ftarr'd

Pale as thy fmock! When we fhall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my foul from heav'n,
And fiends will fnatch at it. Cold, cold, my Girl,
Ey'n like thy chastity. O curfed flave!

Whip me, ye Devils,

From the poffeffion of this heav'nly fight;
Blow me about in winds, roast me in fulphur,

· Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire

Oh Desdemona! Defdemona! dead, dead! oh, oh!
Enter Lodovico, Caffio led in wounded, Montano, and
Iago prifoner, with Officers.

Lod. Where is this rafh and most unfortunate man?
Oth. That's he, that was Othello: here I am.
Lod. Where is that viper? bring the villain forth.

Oth.

Oth. I look down tow'rds his feet; but That's a

fable.

If that thou beeft a Devil, I cannot kill thee.

[Othello wounds Iago.

Lod. Wrench his fword from him.

lago. I bleed, Sir, but not kill'd.

Oth. I am not forry, neither: I'd have thee live; For, in my fenfe, 'tis happiness to die.

Lod. Oh thou, Othello, that waft once so good,
Fal'n in the practice of a curfed slave,
What fhall be faid to thee?

Oth. Why, any thing;

An honourable murth'rer, if you will:
For nought I did in hate, but all in honour.
Lod. This wretch hath part confeft his villany:
Did you
and he confent in Caffio's death?

Oth. Ay.

Caf. Dear General, I never gave you Cause. Oth. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon: Will you, I pray, demand that demy-devil, Why he hath thus enfnar'd my foul and body? Iago. Demand me nothing; what you know, you

know;

From this time forth I never will speak word.
Lod. What? not to pray?

Gra. Torments will ope your lips.

Oth. Well, thou dost best.

Lod. Sir, you fhall understand what hath befal'n,
Which, as I think, you know not; here's a letter,
Found in the pocket of the flain Roderigo,

And, here, another; one of them imports
The death of Caffio to be undertook

By Rodorigo.

Oth. Oh villain!

Caf. Moft heathenifh and moft grofs!

Lod. Now, here's another discontented paper, Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems, Rodorigo meant t'have fent this damned villain; But that, belike, Iago in the interim

Came in and fatisfy'd him.

P 2

Oth