As ignorant as dirt; thou'ft done a deed

I care not for thy fword, I'll make thee known,
Though I loft twenty lives ----- Help! help hoa! help!
The Moor hath kill'd my mistress. Murther, murther!

Enter Montano, Gratiano, Jago, and others.

Mon. What is the matter? how now, General ?
Emil. Oh, are you come, Jago? you have done well,
That men must lay their murthers on your neck.

Gra. What is the matter?

Emil. Difprove this villain, if thou be'st a man;
He fays thou toldst him that his wife was false:
I know thou didst not, thou'rt not fuch a villain.
Speak, for my heart is full.

Jago. I told him what I thought; and told no more
Than what he found himself was apt and true..

Emil. But did you ever tell him, fhe was falfe?
Jago. I did.

Emil. You told a lie; an odious damned lie:
Upon my foul a lie; a wicked lie.

She falfe with Caffio? did you fay with Caffio?

Jago. With Caffio, mistress; go to, charm your tongue. Emil. I will not charm my tongue; I'm bound to speak, My mistress lies here murther'd in her bed. *

murder'd in her bed.

All. Oh heav'ns forefend!

Emil. And your reports have fet the murther on.

Oth. Nay, ftare not, maïters, it is true indeed.

Gra. 'Tis a ftrange truth.

Mon. Oh monftrous act!

Emil. Villany! villany! villany!

I think upon't I think

I thought fo then; I'll kill my felf for grief,

Oh villany, villany!

Jago. What, are you mad? &c.

I fmell't

-Oh villany!

Jago.

Jago. What, are you mad? I charge you get you home.
Emil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to fpeak;
'Tis proper I obey him, but not now:

Perchance, Jago, I will ne'er go home.
Oth. Oh! oh! oh!,

!

Emil. Nay, lay thee down and roar: For thou haft kill'd the sweetest innocent, That e'er did lift up eye.

Oth. Oh fhe was foul!

[Othello falls on the bed.

I scarce did know you, uncle; there lyes your neice,
Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stop'd;
I know this act shews horrible and grim.

Gra. Poor Desdemona! I'm glad thy father's dead
Thy match was mortal to him; and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,
This fight would make him do a defp'rate turn;
Yea, curfe his better angel from his fide,
And fall to reprobation,

Oth. 'Tis pitiful; but yet Jago knows,
That the with Caffio hath the act of shame
A thousand times committed. Caffio confeft it,
And she did gratifie his amorous works,
With that recognizance and pledge of love.
Which I first gave; I faw it in his hand;
It was an handkerchief, an antique token
My father gave my mother.

Emil. Oh heav'n! oh heav'nly powers!
Jago. Come, hold your peace.

Emil. Twill out, 'twill out

I peace!

No, I will speak as liberal as the air,
Let heav'n, and men, and devils, let them all,
All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

VOL. VI.

Eeee

Fago.

c north.

[Jago offers to ftab his wife.

Jago. Be wife and get you home.

Emil. I will not.

Gra. Fie, your fword upon a woman?

Emil. Oh, thou dull Moor! that handkerchief thou speak'st of

I found by fortune, and did give my husband;

For often, with a folemn earnestness,

(More than indeed belong'd to fuch a trifle,)

He begg❜d of me to steal it.

Jago. Villanous whore!

Emil. She give it Caffio? alas I found it, And I did give't my husband.

Fago. Filth, thou lieft.

Emil. By heav'n I do not, I do not, gentlemen:
Oh murd❜rous coxcomb! what fhould fuch a fool
Do with fo good a wife?

[Jago breaks through and wounds his wife, then runs out. Oth. Are there no ftones in heav'n,

But what serve for the thunder? precious villain!

Gra. The woman falls; fure he hath kill'd his wife.
Emil. Ay, ay; oh lay me by my miftrefs' fide.
Gra. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd.

Mon. 'Tis a notorious villain; take this weapon,
Which I recover'd have here from the Moor:
Come, guard the door without, let him not pass,
But kill him rather; I'll after that same villain,
For 'tis a damned flave.

[Exeunt Montano and Gratiano.

SCENE IX.

Oth. I am not valiant neither;

But every puny whipster gets my fword.
But why should honour out-live honesty?
Let it go all.

Emil. What did thy fong boad, lady?
Hark, canft thou hear me? I will play the fwan,
And die in mufick; Willow, Willow, Willow
Moor, fhe was chaft, fhe lov'd thee, cruel Moor,
So come my foul to blifs, as I fpeak true;
So fpeaking as I think, alas, I die.

Oth. I have another weapon in this chamber,
It was a fword of Spain, the Ebro's temper;
Oh here it is: uncle, I must come forth.

[Æmilia dies.

Gra. within.] If thou attempt it, it will coft thee dear; Thou haft no weapon, and perforce must suffer.

Oth. Look in upon me then, and speak with me,

Or naked as I am, I will affault thee.

Gra. What is the matter?

Oth. Lo! I have a weapon:
A better never did it self sustain

Upon a foldier's thigh. I've feen the day,
That with this little arm, and this good fword,
I made my way through more impediments,
Than twenty times your ftop. But, oh vain boast!
Who can controul his fate? 'tis not fo now.

Be not afraid, though you do fee me weapon'd;
Here is my journey's end, here is
my butt,
And very fea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismay'd? 'tis a loft fear:
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,

And he retires. Where fhould Othello go?

Now - how doft thou look now? oh ill-ftarr'd wench!
Pale as thy fmock! When we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my foul from heav'n,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?

In the first edition it is Ilebroke's temper. Thence corrupted to Ice-brooks.
Ebro's temper: the waters of that river of Spain are particularly famous for tem-
pering of feel. The finest arms in the world, the Catalonian Fufees.

Ev'n like thy chastity. Oh cursed slave!

Whip me, ye devils,

From the poffeffion of this heav'nly fight;
Blow me about in winds, roast me in fulphur,
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire

Oh Desdemona! Defdemona! dead, dead! ob, oh!

Enter Lodovico, Caffio led in wounded, Montano, and Jago prifoner, with officers.

Lod. Where is this rafh and moft unfortunate man?
Oth. That's he that was Othello: here I am.

Lod. Where is that viper? bring the villain forth.
Oth. I look down tow'rds his feet; but that's a fable.

If that thou beeft a devil, I cannot kill thee.

Lod. Wrench his fword from him.
Fago. I bleed, Sir, but not kill'd.

[Othello wounds Jago.

Oth. I am not forry neither: I'd have thee live;
For in my sense, 'tis happiness to die.

Lod. Oh thou, Othello, that waft once fo good,
Faln in the practice of a cursed slave,
What shall be faid to thee?

Oth. Why any thing;

An honourable murth'rer, if you will:

For nought I did in hate, but all in honour.

Lod. This wretch bath part confest his villany: Did you and he consent in Caffio's death?

Oth. Ay.

Caf. Dear General, I never gave you cause.
Oth. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon:

Will you, I pray, demand that demy-devil,

Why