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! help, hoa;

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.
Gra. What is the matter?

Emil. Difprove this villain, if thou be'ft 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 tongue.

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

My mistress lies here murther'd in her bed.

All. Oh heavens forefend !

Emil. And your reports have fet the murther on. Oth. Nay, ftare not, mafters; it is true, indeed. Gra. 'Tis a ftrange truth.

Mon. Oh monstrous act !

Emil. Villany! villany! villany!

I think upon't-I think-I fmell't-Oh villany!
I thought fo then; I'll kill myself for grief ;—
Oh villany, villany!

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, 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, she was foul !

[Rifing.

I fcarce did know you, Uncle; there lies your Niece, Whose breath, indeed, thefe hands have newly ftop'd; I know, this act fhews horrible and grim.

Gra. Poor Desdemona! I'm glad thy father's dead:
Thy match was mortal to him; and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,
This fight would make him do a defp'rate turn;
Yea, curfe his better Angel from his fide,
And fall to reprobation.

Oth. 'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows,
That the with Caffio had the act of fhame
A thousand times committed. Caffio confeft it;
And fhe did gratify his amorous works,
With that recognizance and pledge of love
Which I first gave her; I faw it in his hand;
It was an handkerchief, an antique token
My father gave my mother.

Emil. Oh heav'n! oh heav'nly Powers!
Iago. Come, hold your peace.

Emil. 'Twill out, 'twill out- I, peace!
No, I will speak as liberal as the air;

Let heav'n, and men, and devils, let them all,
All, all cry fhame against me, yet I'll speak.

Iago. Be wife, and get you home.

Emil. I will not.

[lago offers to ftab his wife.

Gra. Fie, your fword upon a woman?

Emil. O thou dull Moor! that handkerchief, thou speak'st of,

I found by fortune, and did give my husband ;
For often, with a folemn earnestnefs,

(More than, indeed, belong'd to fuch a trifle)
He begg'd of me to steal it.

lago. Villanous whore!

Emil. She give it Caffio? alas, I found it, And I did giv't my husband.

Iago. Filth, thou lieft.

Emil. By heav'n, I do not; I do not, gentlemen: Oh murd'rous coxcomb! what fhould fuch a fool Do with fo good a wife?

Iago breaks through and wounds his wife, then

runs out.

Oth. 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. Gra. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd.

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 Iago. Without queftion, Shakespear wrote, and pointed the lines thus,

Are there no ftones in heav'n?

FOR WHAT THEN SERVES the thunder?

i. e. are there no bolts in heaven for this villain? for what pur pose then ferves the thunder, that inftrument of its vengeance?

But

But kill him rather; I'll after that fame villain,
For 'tis a damned flave. [Exeunt Mon. and Gra.

S CE

NE

IX.

Oth. "I am not valiant neither;

"But every puny whipfter gets my fword. "But why fhould honour out-live honesty? "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.

6

[Æmilia dies. Oth. I have another weapon in this chamber, It was a fword of Spain, Oh, here it is: Uncle, I Gra. within.] If thou

dear;

the Ebro's temper; must come forth. attempt it, it will coft thee

Thou haft no weapon, and perforce muft fuffer.
Oth. Look in upon me then, and fpeak with me,
Or, naked as I am, I will affault thee.

Re-enter Gratiano:

Gra. What is the matter?

Oth. Lo! I have a weapon:

A better never did itself sustain

Upon a foldier's thigh. I've feen the day,
That with this little arm, and this good fword,
I've made my way thro' more impediments,
Than twenty times your ftop. But, oh vain boast!

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 so now.
Be not afraid, tho' you do fee me weapon'd;
Here is my journey's end, here is my Butt,
The very fea-mark of my utmost fail.
Do you go back difmay'd? 'tis a loft fear:
Man but a rush against Othello's breaft,
And he retires. Where fhould Othello go?
Now how doft thou look now? oh ill-ftarr'd
Wench!

Pale as thy fmock! When we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my foul from heav'n,
And fiends will fnatch at it. Cold, cold, my Girl,
Ev'n like thy chastity. O curfed slave!
Whip me, ye Devils,

From the poffeffion of this heav'nly fight;
Blow me about in winds, roaft me in fulphur,
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire-
Oh Defdemona! Defdemona! dead, dead! oh, oh!

S C E NE X.

Enter Lodovico, Caffio led in wounded, Montano, and
Iago prifoner, with Officers.

Lod. Where is this rafh and most unfortunate man?
Oth. That's he, that was Othello: here I am.
Lod. Where is that viper? bring the villain forth.
Oth. I look down tow'rds his feet; but That's a

fable.

If that thou beeft a Devil, I cannot kill thee.

[Othello wounds Iago,

Lod. Wrench his fword from him.

Iago. I bleed, Sir, but not kill'd.

Oth. I am not forry, neither: I'd have thee live s

For, in my fenfe, 'tis happiness to die.

Lod. Oh thou, Othello, that waft once so good,

Fal'n in the practice of a curfed slave,—

VOL. VIII.

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