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  • Title: Othello (Quarto 1, 1622)
  • Editor: Donald Bailey
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-466-0

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Donald Bailey
    Peer Reviewed

    Othello (Quarto 1, 1622)

    97
    The Moore of Venice.

    Pale as thy smocke, when we shall meete at count,
    This looke of thine, will hurle my soule from heauen,
    3575And fiends will snatch at it: cold, cold, my girle,
    Euen like thy chastity; O cursed slaue:
    Whippe me you Diuells,
    From the possession of this heauenly sight,
    Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphure,
    3580Wash me in steepe downe gulphes of liquid fire:
    O Desdemona, Desdemoua, dead, O, o, o.
    Enter Lodouico, Montano, Iago, and Officers,
    3582.1Cassio in a Chaire.
    Lod. Where is this rash and most infortunate man.
    3585Oth. That's he that was Othello, here I am.
    Lod. Where is this Viper, bring the villaine forth.
    Oth. I looke downe towards his feet, but that's a fable
    If thou beest a diuell, I cannot kill thee.
    3590Lod. Wring his sword from him.
    Iag. I bleed sir, but not kil'd.
    Oth. I am not sorry neither, I'de haue thee liue,
    For in my sense tis happinesse to die.
    Lod. O thou Othello, that wert once so good,
    3595Falne in the practise of a damned slaue,
    What should be said to thee?
    Oth. Why any thing,
    An honourable murderer if you will:
    For nought did I in hate, but all in honour.
    3600Lod. This wretch hath part confest his villainy:
    Did you and he consent in Cassio's death?
    Oth. I.
    Cas. Deare Generall, I did neuer giue you cause.
    Oth. I doe beleeue it, and I aske you pardon,
    3605Will you pray, demand that demy diuell,
    Why he hath thus insnar'd my soule and body?
    Iag. Demand me nothing, what you know you know,
    From this time forth I neuer will speake word.
    Lod. What not to pray?
    3610Grat. Torments will op'e your lips.
    Oth.
    N