What,
To kiss in private?

Or to be naked with her friend in bed
An hour or more, not meaning any harm?

Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm!
It is hypocrisy against the devil:
They that mean virtuously, and yet do so,
The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.

So they do nothing, ’tis a venial slip:
But if I give my wife a handkerchief⁠—

Why, then, ’tis hers, my lord; and, being hers,
She may, I think, bestow’t on any man.

She is protectress of her honour too:
May she give that?

Her honour is an essence that’s not seen;
They have it very oft that have it not:
But, for the handkerchief⁠—

By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it.
Thou said’st, it comes o’er my memory,
As doth the raven o’er the infected house,
Boding to all⁠—he had my handkerchief.

What,
If I had said I had seen him do you wrong?
Or heard him say⁠—as knaves be such abroad,
Who having, by their own importunate suit,
Or voluntary dotage of some mistress,
Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose
But they must blab⁠—

He hath, my lord; but be you well assured,
No more than he’ll unswear.

Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, when
they belie her. Lie with her! that’s fulsome.
—Handkerchief⁠—confessions⁠—handkerchief!⁠—To
confess, and be hanged for his labour;⁠—first, to be
hanged, and then to confess.⁠—I tremble at it.
Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing
passion without some instruction. It is not words
that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips.
—Is’t possible?⁠—Confess⁠—handkerchief!⁠—O devil!⁠—Falls in a trance.

Work on,
My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught;
And many worthy and chaste dames even thus,
All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord!
My lord, I say! Othello!

My lord is fall’n into an epilepsy:
This is his second fit; he had one yesterday.

No, forbear;
The lethargy must have his quiet course:
If not, he foams at mouth and by and by
Breaks out to savage madness. Look he stirs:
Do you withdraw yourself a little while,
He will recover straight: when he is gone,
I would on great occasion speak with you. Exit Cassio.
How is it, general? have you not hurt your head?

I mock you! no, by heaven.
Would you would bear your fortune like a man!

There’s many a beast then in a populous city,
And many a civil monster.

Good sir, be a man;
Think every bearded fellow that’s but yoked
May draw with you: there’s millions now alive
That nightly lie in those unproper beds
Which they dare swear peculiar: your case is better.
O, ’tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock,
To lip a wanton in a secure couch,
And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know;
And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.

Stand you awhile apart;
Confine yourself but in a patient list.
Whilst you were here o’erwhelmed with your grief⁠—
A passion most unsuiting such a man⁠—
Cassio came hither: I shifted him away,
And laid good ’scuse upon your ecstasy,
Bade him anon return and here speak with me;
The which he promised. Do but encave yourself,
And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns,
That dwell in every region of his face;
For I will make him tell the tale anew,
Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when
He hath, and is again to cope your wife:
I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience;
Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen,
And nothing of a man.

Dost thou hear, Iago?
I will be found most cunning in my patience;
But⁠—dost thou hear?⁠—most bloody.

That’s not amiss;
But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw? Othello retires.
Now will I question Cassio of Bianca,
A housewife that by selling her desires
Buys herself bread and clothes: it is a creature
That dotes on Cassio; as ’tis the strumpet’s plague
To beguile many and be beguiled by one:
He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain
From the excess of laughter. Here he comes:

As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad;
And his unbookish jealousy must construe
Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures and light behavior,
Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant?

The worser that you give me the addition
Whose want even kills me.

Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on’t.
Speaking lower. Now, if this suit lay in Bianca’s power,
How quickly should you speed!

Now he importunes him
To tell it o’er: go to; well said, well said.

She gives it out that you shall marry hey:
Do you intend it?

Something from Venice, sure. ’Tis Lodovico
Come from the duke: and, see, your wife is with him.

I am very glad to see you, signior;
Welcome to Cyprus.

Cousin, there’s fall’n between him and my lord
An unkind breach: but you shall make all well.

He did not call; he’s busy in the paper.
Is there division ’twixt my lord and Cassio?

A most unhappy one: I would do much
To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio.

May be the letter moved him;
For, as I think, they do command him home,
Deputing Cassio in his government.

My lord, this would not be believed in Venice,
Though I should swear I saw’t: ’tis very much:
Make her amends; she weeps.

O devil, devil!
If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.
Out of my sight!

Truly, an obedient lady:
I do beseech your lordship, call her back.

Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn:
Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on,
And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep;
And she’s obedient, as you say, obedient,
Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears.
Concerning this, sir⁠—O well-painted passion!⁠—
I am commanded home. Get you away;
I’ll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate,
And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt! Exit Desdemona.
Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight,
I do entreat that we may sup together:
You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus.⁠—Goats and monkeys! Exit.

Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate
Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature
Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue
The shot of accident, nor dart of chance,
Could neither graze nor pierce?

He’s that he is: I may not breathe my censure
What he might be: if what he might he is not,
I would to heaven he were!

’Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew
That stroke would prove the worst!

Is it his use?
Or did the letters work upon his blood,
And new-create this fault?

Alas, alas!
It is not honesty in me to speak
What I have seen and known. You shall observe him,
And his own courses will denote him so
That I may save my speech: do but go after,
And mark how he continues.

But then I saw no harm, and then I heard
Each syllable that breath made up between them.

I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest,
Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other,
Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom.
If any wretch have put this in your head,
Let heaven requite it with the serpent’s curse!
For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true,
There’s no man happy; the purest of their wives
Is foul as slander.

Bid her come hither: go. Exit Emilia.
She says enough; yet she’s a simple bawd
That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore,
A closet lock and key of villainous secrets
And yet she’ll kneel and pray; I have seen her do’t.

Let me see your eyes;
Look in my face.

To Emilia. Some of your function, mistress;
Leave procreants alone and shut the door;
Cough, or cry “hem,” if any body come:
Your mystery, your mystery: nay, dispatch. Exit Emilia.

Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?
I understand a fury in your words.
But not the words.

Your wife, my lord; your true
And loyal wife.

Come, swear it, damn thyself
Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves
Should fear to seize thee: therefore be double damn’d:
Swear thou art honest.

Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep?
Am I the motive of these tears, my lord?
If haply you my father do suspect
An instrument of this your calling back,
Lay not your blame on me: If you have lost him,
Why, I have lost him too.

Had it pleased heaven
To try me with affliction; had they rain’d
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head.
Steep’d me in poverty to the very lips,
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes,
I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at!
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner’d up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads
To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there,
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubin⁠—
Ay, there, look grim as hell!

O, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,
Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet
That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne’er been born!

Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write “whore” upon? What committed!
Committed! O thou public commoner!
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed!
Heaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks,
The bawdy wind that kisses all it meets
Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it. What committed!
Impudent strumpet!

No, as I am a Christian:
If to preserve this vessel for my lord
From any other foul unlawful touch
Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.

I cry you mercy, then:
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice
That married with Othello. Raising his voice.
You, mistress,
That have the office opposite to Saint Peter,
And keep the gate of hell!

You, you, ay, you!
We have done our course; there’s money for your pains:
I pray you, turn the key and keep our counsel. Exit.

Alas, what does this gentleman conceive?
How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady?

I have none: do not talk to me, Emilia;
I cannot weep; nor answer have I none,
But what should go by water. Prithee, tonight
Lay on my bed my wedding sheets: remember;
And call thy husband hither.

’Tis meet I should be used so, very meet.
How have I been behaved, that he might stick
The small’st opinion on my least misuse?

What is your pleasure, madam?
How is’t with you?

I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes
Do it with gentle means and easy tasks:
He might have chid me so; for, in good faith,
I am a child to chiding.

Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her.
Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,
As true hearts cannot bear.

He call’d her whore: a beggar in his drink
Could not have laid such terms upon his callat.

Hath she forsook so many noble matches,
Her father and her country and her friends,
To be call’d whore? would it not make one weep?

Beshrew him for’t!
How comes this trick upon him?

I will be hang’d, if some eternal villain,
Some busy and insinuating rogue,
Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office,
Have not devised this slander; I’ll be hang’d else.

A halter pardon him! and hell gnaw his bones!
Why should he call her whore? who keeps her company?
What place? what time? what form? what likelihood?
The Moor’s abused by some most villainous knave,
Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow.
O heaven, that such companions thou’ldst unfold,
And put in every honest hand a whip
To lash the rascals naked through the world
Even from the east to the west!

O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was
That turn’d your wit the seamy side without,
And made you to suspect me with the Moor.

O good Iago,
What shall I do to win my lord again?
Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel:
If e’er my will did trespass ’gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed,
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did.
And ever will⁠—though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement⁠—love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love. I cannot say “whore:”
It does abhor me now I speak the word;
To do the act that might the addition earn
Not the world’s mass of vanity could make me.

I pray you, be content; ’tis but his humour:
The business of the state does him offence,
And he does chide with you.

’Tis but so, I warrant. Trumpets within.
Hark, how these instruments summon to supper!
The messengers of Venice stay the meat;
Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well. Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia.

He says he will return incontinent:
He hath commanded me to go to bed,
And bade me to dismiss you.

It was his bidding: therefore, good Emilia,
Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu:
We must not now displease him.

So would not I my love doth so approve him,
That even his stubbornness, his cheques, his frowns⁠—
Prithee, unpin me⁠—have grace and favour in them.

All’s one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds!
If I do die before thee prithee, shroud me
In one of those same sheets.

My mother had a maid call’d Barbara:
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad
And did forsake her: she had a song of “willow;”
An old thing ’twas, but it express’d her fortune,
And she died singing it: that song to-night
Will not go from my mind; I have much to do,
But to go hang my head all at one side,
And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch.

No, unpin me here.
This Lodovico is a proper man.

Lay by these:⁠—

Prithee, hie thee; he’ll come anon:⁠—

Nay, that’s not next.⁠—Hark! who is’t that knocks?

Singing. I call’d my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow:
If I court moe women, you’ll couch with moe men!
So, get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch;
Doth that bode weeping?

I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men!
Dost thou in conscience think⁠—tell me, Emilia⁠—
That there be women do abuse their husbands
In such gross kind?

Nor I neither by this heavenly light;
I might do’t as well i’ the dark.

The world’s a huge thing: it is a great price.
For a small vice.

Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong
For the whole world.

Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage as would store the world they played for.
But I do think it is their husbands’ faults
If wives do fall: say that they slack their duties,
And pour our treasures into foreign laps,
Or else break out in peevish jealousies,
Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us,
Or scant our former having in despite;
Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,
Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know
Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell
And have their palates both for sweet and sour,
As husbands have. What is it that they do
When they change us for others? Is it sport?
I think it is: and doth affection breed it?
I think it doth: is’t frailty that thus errs?
It is so too: and have not we affections,
Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?
Then let them use us well: else let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.

Good night, good night: heaven me such uses send,
Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend! Exeunt.