Every way makes my gain. Live Rodorigo, Of gold and jewels that I bobb'd from him, It must not be. If Caffio do remain, He hath a daily beauty in his life, That makes me ugly; and befides, the Moor Rod. I know his gate; 'tis he: villain, thou diest. Caf. That thruft had been mine enemy indeed, But that my coat is better than thou know'ft: I will make proof of thine. Rod. Oh, I am flain. [Fight, and both fall. Caf. I'm maim'd for ever; help, hoa! murther, murther! [lago behind cuts Caffio on the leg, and Exit. Enter Othello above at a Window. Oth. The voice of Caffio; Iago keeps his word. Rod. Oh villain that I am! Oth. It is even fo. Caf. Oh help, ho! light! a furgeon! Oth. 'Tis he! oh brave Iago, honest and juft, That haft fuch noble fenfe of thy friend's wrong, Thou teachest me Minion, your dear lies dead, And your fate hyes apace. Strumpet, I come: From off my heart thofe charms thine eyes have blotted: Thy bed luft-ftain'd, fhall with luft's blood be spotted. [Exit Othello. III. Enter Lodovico and Gratiano. Caf. What, ho! no watch? no paffage? murther, murther! Gra. 1 Gra, 'Tis fome mifchance, the voice is very direful. Caf. Oh help! Lod. Hark! Rod. Oh wretched villain! Lod. Two or three groans. It is a heavy night; Rod. No body come? then fhall I bleed to death. Enter lago, in his shirt, with a Light and Sword. [weapons. Iago. Do not you hear a cry? Caf. Here, here: for heav'n's fake help me. Iago. What's the matter? Gra. This is Othello's Ancient, as I take it. Iago. Oh me, lieutenant! what villains have done this? And cannot make away. Iago. O treacherous villains! What are you there? come in and give fome help. Rod. Oh help me there. Caf. That's one of them. Iago. Oh murd'rous flave! oh villain! [lago ftabs him. Rod. Oh damn'd Iago! oh inhuman dog! [Dies. Iago. Kill men i'th'dark? where be thefe bloody thieves? How filent is this town! ho, murther! murther! What may you be? are you of good or evil? Lod. As you fhall prove us, praise us. Iago. Signior Lodovico? Lod. He, Sir. Iago. I cry you mercy: here's Caffio hurt by villains. VOL. VI. Gra. Caffio? Iago. How is't, brother? Caf. My leg is cut in two. lago. Marry heav'n forbid: Light, Gentlemen, I'll bind it with my fhirt. SCENE IV. Enter Bianca. Bian. What is the matter, hoa? who is't that cry'd? lago. Who is't that cry'd! Bian. Oh my dear Caffio, My fweet Caffio, oh Caffio, Caffio, Caffio! Jago. Oh notable ftrumpet! Caffio, may you suspect Who they should be, that have thus mangled you? Caf. No. Gra. I am forry to find you thus: I have been to feek you. Iago. Lend me a garter. To bear him eafily hence. So-Oh for a chair, Bian. Alas, he faints. Oh Caffio, Caffio, Caffio! Patience a while, good Caffio, come, come : Iago. Even he, Sir: did you know him? Iago. Signior Gratiano? I cry your gentle pardon; Thefe bloody accidents must excuse my manners, That fo neglected you. Gra. I am glad to fee you. Iago. How do you, Caffio? oh a chair, a chair. Iago. He, he, 'tis he: oh that's well faid, the chair. Some good man bear him carefully from hence, 10 I'll fetch the General's furgeon. For you, mistress, Emil. Alas, what is the matter? What is the matter, husband? [To Bianca. Iago. Caffio hath here been fet on in the dark By Rodorigo, and fellows that are 'fcap'd: He's almoft flain, and Rodorigo dead. Emil. Alas, good gentleman! alas, good Caffio! Pray, Æmilia, What, do you shake at that? Bian. He fupt at my houfe, but I therefore shake not. Emil. Oh fie upon thee, ftrumpet! Bian. I am no ftrumpet, but of life as honeft As you that thus abufe me. Emil. As I? fie upon thee! Iago. Kind gentlemen, let's fee poor Caffio dreft. Come, mistress, you muft tell's another tale. Emilia, run to the citadel, And tell my Lord and Lady, what hath hap'd: Will you go on afore? this is the night [Exeunt. 4 flain here, Caffio, L12 SCENE SCENE. VI. A Bed-Chamber: Defdemona is difcovered afle Oth. I in her bed. Enter Othello, with a Light, and a Sword. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars, It is the cause. Yet I'll not fhed her blood, Nor fear that whiter skin of hers than fnow, [Lays down the furi And smooth as monumental alabaster: put out thy light.* If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, [Sets down the Candle, not putting it out. When I have pluck'd 'the' rofe, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs muft wither I'll fmell thee on the tree; [Kiffing her. Oh balmy breath, that doft almost perswade But they are cruel tears: this forrow's heav'nly, Def. Who's there? Othello? Oth. Ay, Desdemona. Def. Will you come to bed, my Lord? 5 Put out the light, and, then, put out the light. Oth. 6 thy |