Scene I

What,
To kiss in private?

Or to be naked with her friend in bed
An hour or more, not meaning any harm?

Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm!
It is hypocrisy against the devil:
They that mean virtuously, and yet do so,
The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.

So they do nothing, ’tis a venialminor enough to be forgiven slip:
But if I give my wife a handkerchief⁠—

Why, then, ’tis hers, my lord; and, being hers,
She may, I think, bestow’t on any man.

She is protectress of her honour too:
May she give that?

Her honour is an essence that’s not seen;
They have it very oft that have it not:
But, for the handkerchief⁠—

By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it.
Thou said’st, it comes o’er my memory,
As doth the raven o’er the infected house,
Boding to all⁠—he had my handkerchief.

What,
If I had said I had seen him do you wrong?
Or heard him say⁠—as knaves be such abroad,
Who having, by their own importunate suit,
Or voluntary dotage of some mistress,
Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose
But they must blab⁠—

He hath, my lord; but be you well assured,
No more than he’ll unswear.

Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, when
they belie her. Lie with her! that’s fulsome.
—Handkerchief⁠—confessions⁠—handkerchief!⁠—To
confess, and be hanged for his labour;⁠—first, to be
hanged, and then to confess.⁠—I tremble at it.
Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing
passion without some instruction. It is not words
that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips.
—Is’t possible?⁠—Confess⁠—handkerchief!⁠—O devil!⁠—Falls in a trance.

Work on,
My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught;
And many worthy and chaste dames even thus,
All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord!
My lord, I say! Othello!

My lord is fall’n into an epilepsy:
This is his second fit; he had one yesterday.

No, forbear;
The lethargy must have his quiet course:
If not, he foams at mouth and by and by
Breaks out to savage madness. Look he stirs:
Do you withdraw yourself a little while,
He will recover straight: when he is gone,
I would on great occasion speak with you. Exit Cassio.
How is it, general? have you not hurt your head?

I mock you! no, by heaven.
Would you would bear your fortune like a man!

There’s many a beast then in a populous city,
And many a civil monster.

Good sir, be a man;
Think every bearded fellow that’s but yoked
May draw with you: there’s millions now alive
That nightly lie in those unproper beds
Which they dare swear peculiar: your case is better.
O, ’tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock,
To lip a wanton in a secure couch,
And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know;
And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.

Stand you awhile apart;
Confine yourself but in a patient list.
Whilst you were here o’erwhelmed with your grief⁠—
A passion most unsuiting such a man⁠—
Cassio came hither: I shifted him away,
And laid good ’scuse upon your ecstasy,
Bade him anon return and here speak with me;
The which he promised. Do but encave yourself,
And mark the fleersmocking looks or sneers, the gibes, and notable scorns,
That dwell in every region of his face;
For I will make him tell the tale anew,
Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when
He hath, and is again to cope your wife:
I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience;
Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen,
And nothing of a man.

Dost thou hear, Iago?
I will be found most cunning in my patience;
But⁠—dost thou hear?⁠—most bloody.

That’s not amiss;
But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw? Othello retires.
Now will I question Cassio of Bianca,
A housewife that by selling her desires
Buys herself bread and clothes: it is a creature
That dotes on Cassio; as ’tis the strumpet’s plague
To beguile many and be beguiled by one:
He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain
From the excess of laughter. Here he comes:

As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad;
And his unbookish jealousy must construe
Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures and light behavior,
Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant?

The worser that you give me the addition
Whose want even kills me.

Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on’t.
Speaking lower. Now, if this suit lay in Bianca’s power,
How quickly should you speed!

Now he importunes him
To tell it o’er: go to; well said, well said.

She gives it out that you shall marry hey:
Do you intend it?

Something from Venice, sure. ’Tis Lodovico
Come from the duke: and, see, your wife is with him.

I am very glad to see you, signior;
Welcome to Cyprus.

Cousin, there’s fall’n between him and my lord
An unkind breach: but you shall make all well.

He did not call; he’s busy in the paper.
Is there division ’twixt my lord and Cassio?

A most unhappy one: I would do much
To atonereconcile people who have fallen out them, for the love I bear to Cassio.

May be the letter moved him;
For, as I think, they do command him home,
Deputing Cassio in his government.

My lord, this would not be believed in Venice,
Though I should swear I saw’t: ’tis very much:
Make her amends; she weeps.

O devil, devil!
If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.
Out of my sight!

Truly, an obedient lady:
I do beseech your lordship, call her back.

Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn:
Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on,
And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep;
And she’s obedient, as you say, obedient,
Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears.
Concerning this, sir⁠—O well-painted passion!⁠—
I am commanded home. Get you away;
I’ll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate,
And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt! Exit Desdemona.
Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight,
I do entreat that we may sup together:
You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus.⁠—Goats and monkeys! Exit.

Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate
Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature
Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue
The shot of accident, nor dart of chance,
Could neither graze nor pierce?

He’s that he is: I may not breathe my censure
What he might be: if what he might he is not,
I would to heaven he were!

’Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew
That stroke would prove the worst!

Is it his use?
Or did the letters work upon his blood,
And new-create this fault?

Alas, alas!
It is not honesty in me to speak
What I have seen and known. You shall observe him,
And his own courses will denote him so
That I may save my speech: do but go after,
And mark how he continues.