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As I have to be hurt: oh gull! oh dolt!
The Moor hath kill'd my mistress. Murther, murther!
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 murthers on your neck.
Emil. Difprove this villain, if thou be'st a man; He fays, thou toldft him that his wife was falfe: I know, thou didst not; thou'rt not such a villain. Speak, for my heart is full.
Iago. I told him what I thought; and told no more, Than what he found himself was apt and true. Emil. But did you ever tell him, she was false? Iago. I did.
Emil. You told a lye; an odious, damned, lye : Upon my foul, a lye; a wicked lye. She falfe with Caffio? did you fay, with Caffio? Iago. With Caffio, miftrefs; go to, charm your
Emil. I will not charm my tongue; I'm bound to fpeak;
My mistress lies here murther'd in her bed.
All. Oh heavens forefend !
Emil. And your reports have fet the murther on.
Emil. Villany! villany! villany!
I think upon't-I think-I fmell't-Oh villany!
Iago. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you
Emil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak; 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now: Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home.
Oth. Oh! oh! oh! [Othello falls on the bed. Emil. Nay, lay thee down and roar : For thou haft kill'd the sweetest Innocent, That e'er did lift up eye.
Oth. Oh, fhe was foul !
I fcarce did know you, Uncle; there lies your Niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stop'd; I know, this act fhews horrible and grim.
Gra. Poor Desdemona! I'm glad thy father's dead:
Oth. 'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows,
Emil. Oh heav'n! oh heav'nly Powers!
Emil. 'Twill out, 'twill out- I, peace !
Iago. Be wife, and get you home.
I found by fortune, and did give my husband;
lago. Villanous whore!
Emil. She give it Caffio? alas, I found it,
Emil. By heav'n, I do not; I do not, gentlemen:
Iago breaks through and wounds his wife, then
Are there no ftones in heav'n?
For what then serves the thunder? precious villain! Gra. The woman falls; fure he has kill'd his wife.
Emil. Ay, ay; oh, lay me by my mistress' fide.
Mon. 'Tis a notorious villain; take this weapon, Which I have here recover'd from the Moor: Come, guard the door without, let him not pafs,
5 Are there no flones in heav'n,
BUT WHAT SERVE FOR the thunder?-] What occafion for other, when those would ferve his purpose? For he wanted a thunderbolt for lago. Without question, Shakespear wrote, and pointed the lines thus,
Are there no fiones in heav'n?
FOR WHAT THEN SERVES the thunder ?
are there no bolts in heaven for this villain? for what pur pose then ferves the thunder, that inftrument of its vengeance?
But kill him rather; I'll after that fame villain,
Oth. "I am not valiant neither; "But every puny whipfter gets my fword. "But why fhould honour out-live honefty? "Let it go all."
Emil. What did thy Song boad, lady? Hark, can't thou hear me? I will play the fwan, And die in mufick; Willow, Willow, Willow Moor, fhe was chaft; fhe lov'd thee, cruel Moor; So come my foul to blifs, as I fpeak true; So fpeaking as I think, alas, I die.
Oth. I have another weapon in this chamber, It was a fword of Spain, the Ebro's temper; Oh, here it is: Uncle, I muft come forth. Gra. within.] If thou attempt it, it will coft thee
Thou haft no weapon, and perforce must suffer.
Gra. What is the matter?
Oth. Lo! I have a weapon:
A better never did itself fuftain
Upon a foldier's thigh. I've feen the day,
6 -the Ebro's temper;] In the first edition it is, Ifebroke's temper. Thence corrupted, to Ice brook's.-Ebro's temper; the waters of that river of Spain, are particularly famous for tempering of fteel. The fineft arms in the world are the Catalonian Fafees. Mr. Pope. Who
Who can controul his fate? 'tis not fo now.
Pale as thy fmock! When we shall meet at compt,
From the poffeffion of this heav'nly fight;
Enter Lodovico, Caffio led in wounded, Montano, and Iago prifoner, with Officers.
Lod. Where is this rafh and most unfortunate man?
If that thou beeft a Devil, I cannot kill thee.
Oth. I am not forry, neither: I'd have thee live For, in my sense, 'tis happiness to die.
Lod. Oh thou, Othello, that waft once so good, Fal'n in the practice of a curfed flave,