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Their dearest action in the tented field,
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,
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.

Othello. Act i. Sc. 3.
Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still question’d me the story of my life,
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it :
Wherein I spake 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 portance in my travels' history;
Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,
It was my hint to speak, such was the process ;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline.

Ibid. 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, 't was strange, 't was passing strange: 'T was pitiful, 't was 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 loved her,

1 “These things to hear" in Singer.

I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake :
She loved me for the dangers I had pass’d,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used.

Othello. Act i. Sc. 3 I do perceive here a divided duty.

Ibid. The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief.

Ibid. The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.

Ibid. I saw Othello's visage in his mind.




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Put money in thy purse.

The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. Ibid. Framed to make women false.

Ibid. One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens. Act ii. Sc. 1. For I am nothing, if not critical. I am not merry; but I do beguile The thing I am, by seeming otherwise. She that was ever fair and never proud, Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud. She was a wight, if ever such wight were,

Des. To do what? Iogo. To suckle fools and chronicle small beer. Des. O most lame and impotent conclusion ! Ibid. may relish him more in the soldier than in the

Ibid. If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!


You scholar.


Egregiously an ass.

Othello. Act i. &c. 1. I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.

Sc. 3. Potations pottle-deep.

King Stephen was a worthy peer,

His breeches cost him but a crown;
He held them sixpence all too dear, -

With that he called the tailor lown." Tbia.
Silence that dreadful bell : it frights the isle
From her propriety.

Ibid. Your name is great In mouths of wisest censure.

Ibid. Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter. Ibid.

Cassio, I love thee; But never more be officer of mine.


Iago. What, are you hurt, lieutenant ?
Cas. Ay, past all surgery.

Ibid. Reputation, reputation, reputation! Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.

Ibid. O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil !

Ibid. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains !

Ibid. Cas. Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.

Iago. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used.

Ibid. How poor are they that have not patience !


i Though these lines are from an old ballad given in Percy's Reliques

, they are much altered by Shakespeare, and it is his version we sing in the nursery

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

Othello. Act äi. Sc. 3.
Speak to me as to thy thinkings,
As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts
The worst of words.


my lord,

Good name in man and

woman, dear Is the immediate jewel of their souls : Who steals my purse steals trash ; 't is something,

nothing; "T was mine, 't is his, and has been slave to thousands ; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him


Ibid. 0, beware, my lord, of jealousy ! It is the greeneyed monster which doth mock

And makes me

The meat it feeds on.


But, 0, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly ? loves !


Poor and content is rich and rich enough.


To be once in doubt

Is once to be resolv'd.


If I do prove her haggard,
Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings,
I'ld whistle her off and let her down the wind,

prey at fortune.



Into the vale of

I am declined



1 For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

Venus and Adonn. 1" Fondly” in Singer and White ; "soundly” in Staunton.

O curse of marriage,
That we can call these delicate creatures ours,
And not their appetites ! I had rather be a toad,
And live upon the vapour of a dungeon,
Than keep a corner in the thing I love
For others' uses.

Othello. Act iji. Sc.
Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.

Ibid Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday.

Ibid. I swear 't is better to be much abused Than but to know 't a little.

Ibid. He that is robb’d, not wanting what is stolen, Let him not know it, and he's not robb’d at all.

Ibid. 0, now, for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell ! Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell! Othello's occupation 's gone !

Ibid. Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof. No hinge nor loop

Ibid. To hang a doubt on. On horror's head horrors accumulate.

Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe.



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