Hath she forgot already that brave prince,
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury?
A sweeter and a lovlier gentleman,—
Fram'd in the prodigality of nature,
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,—
The spacious world cannot again afford:
And will she yet debase her eyes on me,
That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince,
And made her widow to a woful bed?
On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety?
On me, that halt, and am mis-shapen thus ?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my person all this while.
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I'll be at charges for a looking-glass;
And entertain a score or two of tailors,
To study fashions to adorn my body;
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost!
Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass'd.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days.
To the very moment that he bade me tell it;
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;
Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence
And portance in my travel's history.
These things to hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But still the house-affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not distinctively: I did consent,
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
Which my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:
She swore-in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:
She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me,
And bade me if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I lov'd her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used.
As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown.-Thou dost mean something:
I heard thee say but now, thou liked'st not that
When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like?
And, when I told thee he was of my counsel
In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst Indeed!"
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,
Show me thy thought.
Iago. My lord, you know I love you.
And-for I know thou art full of truth 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,
They are close denotements, working from the heart, That passion cannot rule.
OTHELLO'S INCREASING JEALOUSY.
This fellow's of exceeding honesty,
And knows all qualities with a learned spirit
Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard,
Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings,
I'd whistle her off, and let her down the wind,
To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black,
And have not those soft parts of conversation
That chamberers have:-or, for I am declined
Into the vale of years;—yet that's not much.-
She's gone: I am abused; and my relief
Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage,
That we can call these delicate creatures ours,
And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad,
And live upon the vapour of a dungeon,
Than keep a corner in the thing I love
For other's uses.
Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong
As proofs of Holy Writ.
How necessary, therefore, is the advice which the poet imparts in the following lines, although proceeding from the lips of the crafty Iago:
It is the green-eyed monster which doth make
The meat it feeds on.
THE TORTURES OF JEALOUSY.
Iago. Look where he comes!
Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owed'st yesterday.
Iago. Why, how now, general! no more of that.
Oth. Avaunt! begone! thou hast set me on the rack: I swear 'tis better to be much abused,
Than but to know't a little.
Oth. What sense had I of her stolen hours of lust?
I saw it not, thought it not, it harm'd not me;
I slept the next night well, was free and merry!
I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips:
He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stolen,
Let him not know it, and he's not robb'd at all.
Iago.
I am sorry to hear this.
Oth. I had been happy, if the general camp,
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