"Oh, 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, oh, what damned minutes tells he o'er/
Who dotes, yet doubts— suspects, yet soundly loves!"
I had been happy if the general camp,
Pioneers and all, had tasted her sweet body,
So I had nothing known. Oh, now forever
Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!
Farewell the plumèd troops and the big wars
That makes ambition virtue! Oh, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, th' 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 clamors counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone.
I don't like what you're asking me to do. But since I've gotten myself involved this far, because I'm so stupidly honest and because I like you so much, I'll keep going. I recently shared a bed with Cassio, and I couldn't sleep because of a raging toothache. Well, some people talk in their sleep, and Cassio is one of them. I heard him saying, "Sweet Desdemona, let's be careful and hide our love," in his sleep. And then he grabbed my hand and said, "Oh, my darling!" andTheir 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 plucked up kisses by the roots
That grew upon my lips, lay his leg
Over my thigh, and sigh, and kiss, and then
Cry "Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!"
That's a fault. That handkerchief
Did an Egyptian to my mother give,
She was a charmer and could almost readThe thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it
'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father
Entirely to her love, but if she lost it
Or made gift of it, my father's eye
Should hold her loathèd and his spirits should hunt
After new fancies. She, dying, gave it me
And bid me, when my fate would have me wived,
To give it her. I did so, and take heed on 't,
Make it a darling like your precious eye.
To lose 't or give 't away were such perdition
As nothing else could match.
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—Oh, 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!
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars,
It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light.
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore
Should I repent me. But once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It must needs wither. I'll smell thee on the tree.
Oh, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword! One more, one more.
Be thus when thou art dead and I will kill thee
And love thee after. (kissing her) One more, and that's the last.
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears. This sorrow's heavenly,
It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.
Soft you, a word or two before you go.
I have done the state some service, and they know 't.
No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely, but too well.
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme. Of one whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe. Of one whose subdued eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinal gum. Set you down this,
And say besides that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcisèd dog,
And smote him, thus.