Internet Shakespeare Editions

Author: William Shakespeare
Editor: Donald L. Bailey
Peer Reviewed

Othello (Quarto 1, 1622)


The Moore of Venice.
11

Bra. So did I yours, good your Grace pardon me,
Neither my place, nor ought I heard of businesse
Hath rais'd me from my bed, nor doth the generall care
Take any hold of me, for my particular griefes,
390Is of so floodgate and orebearing nature,
That it engluts, and swallowes other sorrowes,
And it is still it selfe.
Du. Why, what's the matter?
Bra. My daughter, O my daughter.
395All. Dead?
Bra. I to me:
She is abus'd, stolne from me and corrupted,
By spels and medicines, bought of mountebancks,
For nature so preposterously to erre,
Saunce witchcraft could not.
Du. Who ere he be, that in this foule proceeding
Hath thus beguild your daughter of her selfe,
And you of her, the bloody booke of Law,
405You shall your selfe, read in the bitter letter,
After its owne sense, tho our proper sonne
Stood in your action.
Bra. Humbly I thanke your Grace;
Here is the man, this Moore, whom now it seemes
410Your speciall mandate, for the State affaires
Hath hither brought.
All. We are very sorry for't.
Du, What in your owne part can you say to this?
Bra. Nothing, but this is so.
415Oth. Most potent, graue, and reuerend Seigniors,
My very noble and approoued good maisters:
That I haue tane away this old mans daughter,
It is most true: true, I haue married her,
The very head and front of my offending,
420Hath this extent no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little blest with the set phrase of peace,
For since these armes of mine had seuen yeares pith,
Till now some nine Moones wasted, they haue vs'd
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