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Oth. Out, ftrumpet! Weep'ft thou for him to my face?

Def. Oh banish me, my Lord, but kill me not.
Oth. Down, ftrumpet.

Def. Kill me to-morrow, let me live to-night.
Oth. Nay, if you strive-

Def. But half an hour.

Oth. Being done, there is no pause.

Def. But while I fay one prayer.

Oth. It is too late.

[He fmothers ber.

SCENE VII.

Æmilia, at the door.

Emil. My Lord, my Lord! What hoa! my Lord, my Lord!

Oth. What noife is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead?

I, that am cruel, am yet merciful;

I would not have thee linger in thy pain.

So, fo.

Emil. within.] What hoa! my Lord, my Lord!
Oth. Who's there?

Emil. Oh, my good Lord, I would speak a word
with you.

Oth. Yes, 'tis Æmilia.-By and by-She's dead. 'Tis like, fhe comes to speak of Caffio's death; The noife was high.-Ha, no more moving? Still as the Grave. Shall fhe come in? Were't good? I think, fhe ftirs again. No. What's the beft? If the come in, fhe'll, fure, fpeak to my wife? My wife! my wife! What wife? I have no wife. Oh infupportable! oh heavy hour!

Methinks, it should be now a huge eclipfe

Of

Of Sun, and Moon, and that th' affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration.

Emil. I do befeech you, I may fpeak with you. Oh, good my Lord!

Oth. I had forgot thee: oh, come in, Æmilia. Soft. By and by. Let me the curtains draw. Where art thou? What's the matter with thee now? [Unlocks the door.

Enter Emilia.

Emil. Oh, my good Lord, yonder's foul murder done.

Oth. What? now?

Emil. But now, my Lord.

Oth. It is the very error of the Moon;

She comes more near the Earth than fhe was wont, And makes men mad.

Emil. Caffio, my Lord, hath kill'd

A young Venetian, called Roderigo.

Oth. Roderigo kill'd? and Caffio kill'd?

Emil. No, Caffio is not kill'd.

Oth, Not Caffio kill'd? Then murder's out of tune,

And sweet revenge grows harsh.

Def. Oh, falfly, falfly murder'd!.

Emil. Alas! what cry is that?

Oth. That? what?

Emil. Out, and alas! that was my lady's voice. Help! help, hoa! help! oh lady, speak again; Sweet Desdemona! oh fweet miftrefs, fpeak. Def. A guiltless death I die.

Emil. Oh, who hath done this deed?

Def. No body, I myself. Farewel;

Command me to my kind Lord. Oh, Farewel. [Dies. Oth. Why, how fhould fhe be murder'd?

Emil. Alas! who knows?

Oth. You heard her fay, herfelf, it was not I.

Emil. She faid fo, I muft needs report the truth. Oth. She's like a lyar gone to burning hell; 'Twas I, that kill'd her.

Emil. Oh, the more Angel fhe, and you the blacker Devil.

Oth. She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. Emil. Thou doft bely her, and thou art a Devil. Oth. She was falfe as water.

Emil. Thou art rafh as fire, to say

That she was falfe. Oh, fhe was heavenly true.
Oth. Caffio did tup her: afk thy husband elfe.
Oh, I were damn'd beneath all depth in hell,
But that I did proceed upon juft grounds
To this extremity. Thy hufband knew it all.
Emil. My husband!

Oth. Thy hufband.

Emil. That she was falfe to wedlock?
Oth. Ay, with Caffio. Had he been true,
If heaven would make me fuch another World,
Of one entire and perfect Chryfolite,

I'd not have fold her for it.

Emil. My husband!

Oth. Ay, 'twas he that told me first ;

An honeft man he is, and hates the flime

That sticks on filthy deeds.

Emil. My husband!

Oth. What needs this iteration, woman? I fay, thy husband.

8

Emil. Ob miftrefs! villainy has made mocks with love.

My bufband fay, she was falfe!

Oth. He, woman;

1 fay, thy husband; do'st understand the word?

7-falje as water.] As water that will fupport no weight, nor keep any impreffion.

8-villainy has made mocks with love.] Villainy has taken advantage to play upon the weakness of a violent paffion.

My

My friend, thy bufband, boneft, boneft lago.
Amil. If he fay fo, may his pernicious foul
Rot half a grain a day! he lyes o' th' heart.
She was too fond of her moft filthy bargain.
Oth. Hah!

Emil. Do thy worst.

This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven,
Than thou waft worthy her.

Oth. Peace, you were beft.

Emil. Thou haft not half that power to do me harm,

As I have to be hurt. Oh gull! oh dolt!
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. Murder, murder!

[blocks in formation]

Enter Montano Gratiano, Iago, and others.

Mon. What is the matter? How now, General? Emil. Oh, are you come, Iago? you have done

well,

That men must lay their murders on your neck.
Gra. What is the matter?

Emil. Difprove this villain, if thou beʼst a man;

9 Thou haft not half that power to do me harm, As I have to be hurt :-] Power for will: For will fignifying both ability and inclination, and power fignifying ability, he uses power for inclination. But the Oxford Editor, not understanding his author's phrafeology any better when he had ended than when he had begun with him, al

ters, As I have to be hurt, to, As I have to bear hurt: which yet does not mend the matter, had the poet here ufed power in the fenfe of ability. WARB.

The Oxford editor faw well the meaning of his authour, but weakened his expreffion. She means to fay, I have in this cauft power to endure more than thou boft power to inflict.

He fays, thou toldft him that his wife was falfe:
I know, thou didst not; thou'rt not fuch a villain.
Speak, for my heart is full.

lago. I told him what I thought; and told no more, Than what he found himfelf was apt and true.

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

Emil. You told a lye; an odious, damned, lye: Upon my fout, a lye; a wicked lye.

She falfe with Caffio? Did you fay, with Caffio?
Iago. With Caffio, mistress. Go to.

tongue.

Charm your

Emil. I will not charm my tongue; I'm bound to

fpeak;

My mistress lies bere murder'd in her bed.

All. Ob beavens forefend!

Emil. And your reports have fet the murderer on.
Oth. Nay, ftare not, mafters. It is true, indeed.
Gra. 'Tis a strange truth.

Mon. Ob monstrous a&t!

Æmil. Villainy! villainy! villainy !

I think upon't

-I think

·Ifmell't—Ob villainy!

I thought fo then; I'll kill myself for grief,

Ob villainy, villainy!

Iago. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you

home.

Emil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak, 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now.

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

1

[Othello falls on the bed.

Emil. Nay, lay thee down and roar:

Charm your tongue. ] I know not whether I have read, or whether my own thoughts have fuggefted, an alteration of this paffage. It seems to me not

improbable, that Shakespeare wrote clam your tongue; to clam a bell is to cover the clapper with felt, which drowns the blow, and hinders the found.

For

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