SCENE II.

A Room in the Castle.

Enter OTHELLO and EMILIA.

Oth. You have seen nothing then?

Emil. Nor ever heard; nor ever did suspect. Oth. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together. Emil. But then I saw no harm; and then I heard Each syllable, that breath made up between them. Oth. What, did they never whisper?

Emil.

Never, my lord.
Oth. Nor send you out o'the way?
Emil.

Never.

Oth. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing?

Emil. Never, my lord.

Oth.

That's strange.

Emil. I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other, Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom. If any wretch hath put this in your head, Let heaven requite it with the serpent's curse! For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true, There's no man happy; the purest of their wives Is foul as slander.

Oth.

Bid her come hither:-go.

Exit EMILIA.

She says enough;-yet she's a simple bawd,
That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore,
A closet-lock-and-key of villainous secrets:

And

yet she'll kneel, and pray; I have seen her do't.

Re-enter EMILIA, with DESDEMONA.

Des. My lord, what is your will?

Oth.

Pray, chuck, come hither.

Let me see your eyes;

Des. What is your pleasure?

Oth.

Look in my face.
Des.
What horrible fancy's this?
Oth. Some of your function, mistress;

[TO EMILIA.

Leave procreants alone, and shut the door;
Cough, or cry-hem, if any body come:
Your mystery, your mystery ;-nay, despatch.

[Exit EMILIA. Des. Upon my knees, what doth your speech

import ?

I understand a fury in your words,

But not the words.

Oth. Why, what art thou?

Des.

And loyal wife.

Oth.

Your wife, my lord; your true

Come, swear it, damn thyself;

Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves Should fear to seize thee: therefore be double

damn'd,

Swear-thou art honest.

Des.

Heaven doth truly know it. Oth. Heaven truly knows, that thou art false as

hell.

Des. To whom, my lord? with whom? How am I false?

Oth. O Desdemona !-away! away! away! Des. Alas, the heavy day!-Why do you weep? Am I the occasion of these tears, my lord? If, haply, you my father do suspect, An instrument of this your calling back,

Lay not your blame on me; if you have lost him, Why, I have lost him too.

Oth.

Had it pleas'd heaven To try me with affliction; had he rain'd

All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head;
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips;

Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience: but (alas!) to make me
A fixed figure, for the time of scorn

To point his slow unmoving finger at,—
O! O!

Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner'd up my heart ;*
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads

To knot and gender in!-turn thy complexion there!

Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin ;
Ay, there, look grim as hell!

Des. I hope, my noble lord esteems me honest.
Oth. O, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,
Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,
That the sense aches at thee.-'Would, thou had'st
ne'er been born!

Des. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed? Oth. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write whore upon? What committed! Committed!-0 thou publick commoner!

I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds.-What committed!
Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks;

4

garner'd up my heart;] That is, treasured up; the gar

ner and the fountain are improperly conjoined.

5

turn thy complexion there! &c.] At such an object do thou, patience, thyself change colour; at this do thou, even thou, rosy cherub as thou art, look as grim as hell.

The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it: What committed!
Impudent strumpet!

Des.

By heaven, you do me wrong.

t?

Oth. Are not you a strumpet?
Des.

If to preserve this vessel for

No, as I am a christian: my lord,

From any other foul unlawful touch,
Be-not to be a strumpet, I am none.
Oth. What, not a whore?
Des.

Oth. Is it possible?

No, as I shall be saved.

I cry you mercy, then;

Des. O, heaven forgive us!
Oth.
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice,
That married with Othello.-You, mistress,

Re-enter EMILIA.

That have the office opposite to Saint Peter,
And keep the gate of hell; You! you! ay, you!
We have done our course; there's money for your

I

pains;

pray you, turn the key, and keep our counsel.

[Exit. Emil. Alas, what does this gentleman conceive?— How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady? Des. 'Faith, half asleep.

Emil. Good madam, what's the matter with my lord?

Des. I have none: Do not talk to me, Emilia;

I cannot weep; nor answer I have none,

But what should go by water. Pr'ythee, to-night Lay on my bed my wedding sheets,-remember;And call thy husband hither.

Emil.

Here is a change, indeed!

[Exit.

Des. 'Tis meet I should be us'd so, very meet. How have I been behav'd, that he might stick The small'st opinion on my great'st abuse?

Re-enter EMILIA, with IAGO.

lago. What is your pleasure, madam? How is it with you?

Des. I cannot tell. Those, that do teach young babes,

Do it with gentle means, and easy tasks:

He might have chid me so; for, in good faith,
I am a child to chiding.

Iago.

What's the matter, lady?

Emil. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhor'd her, Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,

As true hearts cannot bear.

Des. Am I that name, Iago?

Iago. What name, fair lady? Des. Such as, she says, my lord did say I was. Emil. He call'd her, whore; a beggar, in his drink, Could not have laid such terms upon his callet. lago. Why did he so?

Des. I do not know; I am sure, I am none such. Iago. Do not weep, do not weep; Alas, the day! Emil. Has she forsook so many noble matches, Her father, and her country, and her friends, To be call'd-whore? would it not make one weep? Des. It is my wretched fortune.

6

upon his callet.] Callet is a lewd woman; so called (says Dr. Grey) from the French calote, which was a sort of headdress worn by country girls.