And cannot make away.
Iago.
Oh treacherous Villaines:
What are you there? Come in, and giue some helpe.
Rod.
O helpe me there.
Cassio.
That's one of them.
Iago.
Oh murd'rous Slaue! O Villaine!
Rod.
O damn'd Iago! O inhumane Dogge!
Iago.
Kill men i'th'darke?
Where be these bloody Theeues?
How silent is this Towne? Hoa, murther, murther.
What may you be? Are you of good, or euill?
Lod.
As you shall proue vs, praise vs.
Iago.
Signior Lodouico?
Lod.
He Sir.
Iago.
I cry you mercy: here's Cassio hurt by Villaines.
Gra.
Cassio?
Iago.
How is't Brother?
Cas.
My Legge is cut in two.
Iago.
Marry heauen forbid:
Light Gentlemen, Ile binde it with my shirt.
Enter Bianca.
Bian.
What is the matter hoa? Who is't that cry'd?
Iago.
Who is't that cry'd?
Bian.
Oh my deere Cassio,
My sweet Cassio: Oh Cassio, Cassio, Cassio.
Iago.
O notable Strumpet. Cassio, may you suspect
Who they should be, that haue thus mangled you?
Cas.
No.
Gra.
I am sorry to finde you thus;
I haue beene to seeke you.
Iago.
Lend me a Garter. So:——— Oh for a Chaire
To beare him easily hence.
Bian.
Alas he faints. Oh Cassio, 'Cassio, Cassio.
Iago.
Gentlemen all, I do suspect this Trash
To be a party in this Iniurie.
Patience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come;
Lend me a Light: know we this face, or no?
Alas my Friend, and my deere Countryman
Rodorigo? No: Yes sure: Yes, 'tis Rodorigo.
Gra.
What, of Venice?
Iago.
Euen he Sir: Did you know him?
Gra.
Know him? I.
Iago.
Signior Gratiano? I cry your gentle pardon:
These bloody accidents must excuse my Manners,
That so neglected you.
Gra.
I am glad to see you.
Iago.
How do you Cassio? Oh, a Chaire, a Chaire.
Gra.
Rodorigo?
Iago.
He, he, 'tis he:
Oh that's well said, the Chaire.
Some good man beare him carefully from hence,
Ile fetch the Generall's Surgeon. For you Mistris,
Saue you your labour. He that lies slaine heere (Cassio)
Was my deere friend. What malice was between you?
Cas.
None in the world: nor do I know the man?
Iago.
What? looke you pale? Oh beare him o'th'Ayre.
Stay you good Gentlemen. Looke you pale, Mistris?
Do you perceiue the gastnesse of her eye?
Nay, if you stare, we shall heare more anon.
Behold her well: I pray you looke vpon her:
Do you see Gentlemen? Nay, guiltinesse will speake
Though tongues were out of vse.
Æmil.
Alas, what is the matter?
What is the matter, Husband?
Iago.
Cassio hath heere bin set on in the darke
By Rodorigo, and Fellowes that are scap'd:
He's almost slaine, and Rodorigo quite dead.
Æmil.
Alas good Gentleman: alas good Cassio.
Iago.
This is the fruits of whoring. Prythe Æmilia,
Go know of Cassio where he supt to night.
What, do you shake at that?
Bian.
He supt at my house, but I therefore shake not.
Iago.
O did he so? I charge you go with me.
Æmil.
Oh fie vpon thee Strumpet.
Bian.
I am no Strumpet, but of life as honest,
As you that thus abuse me.
Æmil.
As I? Fie vpon thee.
Iago.
Kinde Gentlemen:
Let's go see poore Cassio drest.
Come Mistris, you must tel's another Tale.
Æmilia, run you to the Cittadell,
And tell my Lord and Lady, what hath happ'd:
Will you go on afore? This is the night
That either makes me, or foredoes me quight.Exeunt.
Scæna Secunda.
Enter Othello, and Desdemona in her bed.
Oth.
It is the Cause, it is the Cause (my Soule)
Let me not name it to you, you chaste Starres,
It is the Cause. Yet Ile not shed her blood,
Nor scarre that whiter skin of hers, then Snow,
And smooth as Monumentall Alablaster:
Yet she must dye, else shee'l betray more men:
Put out the Light, and then put out the Light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming Minister,
I can againe thy former light restore,
Should I repent me. But once put out thy Light,
Thou cunning'st Patterne of excelling Nature,
I know not where is that Promethæen heate
That can thy Light re-Lume.
When I haue pluck'd thy Rose,
I cannot giue it vitall growth againe,
It needs must wither. Ile smell thee on the Tree.
Oh Balmy breath, that dost almost perswade
Iustice to breake her Sword. One more, one more:
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And loue thee after. One more, and that's the last.
So sweet, was ne're so fatall. I must weepe,
But they are cruell Teares: This sorrow's heauenly,
It strikes, where it doth loue. She wakes.
Des.
Who's there? Othello?
Othel.
I Desdemona.
Des.
Will you come to bed, my Lord?
Oth.
Haue you pray'd to night, Desdemon?
Des.
I my Lord.
Oth.
If you bethinke your selfe of any Crime
Vnreconcil'd as yet to Heauen, and Grace,
Solicite for it straight.
Des.
Alacke, my Lord,
What may you meane by that?
Oth.
Well, do it, and be breefe, I will walke by:
I would not kill thy vnprepared Spirit,
No, Heauens fore-fend) I would not kill thy Soule.
Des.
Talke you of killing?
Oth.
I, I do.
Des.
Then Heauen haue mercy on mee.
Oth.
