Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,
That the sense aches at thee.-'Would thou hadst ne'er been born!
Des. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?
Oth. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write whore upon? What committed!
Committed!-0 thou public commoner!
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds.-What committed!
Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks;
The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it. What committed!
Impudent strumpet !
Des. By heaven, you do me wrong.
Oth. Are not you a strumpet?
Des. No, as I am a Christian:
If to preserve this vessel for my lord,
From any other foul unlawful touch,
Be-not to be a strumpet, I am none.
Des. No, as I shall be saved.
Des. O, Heaven, forgive us.
Oth. I cry you mercy, then ;
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice,
That married with Othello.
In another portion of this work, we have had occasion to quote Desdemona's touching avowal of her fidelity, and therefore need not repeat it here. It is addressed to the cunning, treacherous Iago, who one might have supposed, had he possessed the heart of a man, would have been touched with remorse by the earnest, eloquent appeal of this injured woman.
SCENE. A Bedchamber: Desdemona in bed, asleep.
A light burning.
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 thine,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the
I cannot give it vital growth again;
It needs must wither:-I'll smell it on the tree.
O 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.-One more, and this 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.
OTHELLO'S CONFUSION AFTER THE MURDER.
Yes;-'tis Emilia :-by and by. She's dead.
'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death.
The noise was high.-Ha! no more moving?
Still as the grave. Shall she come in? Were't good?
I think she stirs again.-No-What's best to do?
If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife:
My wife! my wife! what wife? I have no wife.
O, insupportable !-O heavy hour!
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon; and that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration,
If Heaven would make me such another world,
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,
I'd not have sold her for it.
Behold, I have a weapon;
A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day,
That, with this little arm, and this good sword,
I have made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop.-But, O vain boast!
Who can control his fate?-'tis not so now.-
Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd;
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismay'd? 'tis a lost fear;
Man, but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires ;-where should Othello go?
Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench!
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from Heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl!
Even like thy chastity.-
O cursed, cursed slave !-Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!
Wash me about in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire !—
O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead?
OTHELLO'S SPEECH BEFORE HIS DEATH
Soft you; a word or two before you go.
I have done the state some service, and they know it:
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,
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one, whose hand,
Like the base Judean, 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 turban’d Turk
Beat a Venetian, and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him-thus.
For the entertainment of our readers, we shall now produce some of the minor compositions of Shakspere. To some of these, we should not perhaps apply the term 'minor,' as they are extracted from his regular
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