Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.

DISEASES OF THE MIND INCURABLE.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?

REFLECTIONS ON LIFE.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle;
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.—

OTHELLO.

ACT I.

PREFERMENT.

"Trs the curse of service;

Preferment goes by letter, and affection,
Not by the old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first.

IAGO'S DISPRAISE OF HONESTY.

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark

Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For nought but provender: and, when he's old, cashier'd:
Whip me such honest knaves: Others there are,
Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves;
And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,
Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lin'd
their coats,

Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;

And such a one do I profess myself.

For, sir,

It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end:
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern*, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve

For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

LOVE, OTHELLO'S SOLE MOTIVE FOR MARRYING.

For know, Iago,

But that I love the gentle Desdemona,

I would not my unhoused + free condition

Put into circumscription and confine

For the sea's worth.

OTHELLO'S DESCRIPTION TO THE SENATE OF HIS

WINNING THE AFFECTIONS OF DESDEMONA.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv'd good masters,
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;

*Outward show of civility.

+ Unsettled.

peace;

The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little bless'd with the set phrase of j
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action* in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battie;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking for myself: Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjurations, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am charg'd withal) won his daughter with.

Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass'd.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he made me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood, and field;

Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And portence + in my travel's history:

These things to hear,

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: Which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,

* Best exertion.

+ My behaviour.

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively t: I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore,-In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:

She wish'd, she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd

me;

And bade me,

if I had a friend that lov'd her, should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake : She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;

And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.

ACT II.

PERFECT CONTENT.

O my soul's joy!

If after every tempest come such calms,

May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas,
Olympus-high; and duck again as low

As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die,
"Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute,
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.

* Parts.

+ Intention and attention were once synonymous.

ACT III.

A LOVER'S EXCLAMATION.

Farewell, my Desdemona: I will come to thee

straight.

*

[Exit DESDEMONA.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee, and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again.

As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown.-Thou dost mean something:
I heard thee say but now,-Thou lik'dst not that,
When Cassio left my wife; What didst not like?
And, when I told thee-he was of my counsel
In my whole course of wooing, thou criest, Indeed?
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit: If thou dost love me,
Show me thy thought.

Iago. My lord, you know I love you.
Oth.
I think, thou dost;
And, for I know thou art full of love and honesty,
And weigh'st thy words before thou giv'st them
breath,-

Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more:
For such things, in a false disloyal knave,

Are tricks of custom; but in a man that's just,
They are close denotements, working from the heart,
That passion cannot rule.

Y