OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE

by William Shakespeare

Contents

ACT I

Scene I. Venice. A street.

Scene II. Venice. Another street.

Scene III. Venice. A council chamber.

ACT II

Scene I. A seaport in Cyprus. A Platform.

Scene II. A street.

Scene III. A Hall in the Castle.

ACT III

Scene I. Cyprus. Before the Castle.

Scene II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle.

Scene III. Cyprus. The Garden of the Castle.

Scene IV. Cyprus. Before the Castle.

ACT IV

Scene I. Cyprus. Before the Castle.

Scene II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle.

Scene III. Cyprus. Another Room in the Castle.

ACT V

Scene I. Cyprus. A Street.

Scene II. Cyprus. A Bedchamber in the castle.

Dramatis Personæ

DUKE OF VENICE

BRABANTIO, a Senator of Venice and Desdemona’s father

Other Senators

GRATIANO, Brother to Brabantio

LODOVICO, Kinsman to Brabantio

OTHELLO, a noble Moor in the service of Venice

CASSIO, his Lieutenant

IAGO, his Ancient

MONTANO, Othello’s predecessor in the government of Cyprus

RODERIGO, a Venetian Gentleman

CLOWN, Servant to Othello

DESDEMONA, Daughter to Brabantio and Wife to Othello

EMILIA, Wife to Iago

BIANCA, Mistress to Cassio

Officers, Gentlemen, Messenger, Musicians, Herald, Sailor, Attendants,

&c.

SCENE: The First Act in Venice; during the rest of the Play at a

Seaport in Cyprus.

ACT I

SCENE I. Venice. A street.

Enter Roderigo and Iago.

RODERIGO.

Tush, never tell me, I take it much unkindly

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse,

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.

IAGO.

’Sblood, but you will not hear me.

If ever I did dream of such a matter,

Abhor me.

RODERIGO.

Thou told’st me, thou didst hold him in thy hate.

IAGO.

Despise me if I do not. Three great ones of the city,

In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,

Off-capp’d to him; and by the faith of man,

I know my price, I am worth no worse a place.

But he, as loving his own pride and purposes,

Evades them, with a bombast circumstance,

Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war:

And in conclusion,

Nonsuits my mediators: for “Certes,” says he,

“I have already chose my officer.”

And what was he?

Forsooth, a great arithmetician,

One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,

A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wife,

That never set a squadron in the field,

Nor the division of a battle knows

More than a spinster, unless the bookish theoric,

Wherein the toged consuls can propose

As masterly as he: mere prattle without practice

Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election,

And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof

At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds,

Christian and heathen, must be belee’d and calm’d

By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster,

He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,

And I, God bless the mark, his Moorship’s ancient.

RODERIGO.

By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

IAGO.

Why, there’s no remedy. ’Tis the curse of service,

Preferment goes by letter and affection,

And not by old gradation, where each second

Stood heir to the first. Now sir, be judge yourself

Whether I in any just term am affin’d

To love the Moor.

RODERIGO.

I would not follow him, then.

IAGO.

O, sir, content you.

I follow him to serve my turn upon him:

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters

Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark

Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave

That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,

Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass,

For nought but provender, and when he’s old, cashier’d.

Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are

Who, trimm’d in forms, and visages of duty,

Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,

And throwing but shows of service on their lords,

Do well thrive by them, and when they have lin’d their coats,

Do themselves homage. These fellows have some soul,

And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,

It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:

In following him, I follow but myself.

Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,

But seeming so for my peculiar end.

For when my outward action doth demonstrate

The native act and figure of my heart

In complement extern, ’tis not long after

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve

For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

RODERIGO.

What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe,

If he can carry’t thus!

IAGO.

Call up her father,

Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight,

Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen,

And though he in a fertile climate dwell,

Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,

Yet throw such changes of vexation on’t,

As it may lose some color.

RODERIGO.

Here is her father’s house, I’ll call aloud.

IAGO.

Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell

As when, by night and negligence, the fire

Is spied in populous cities.

RODERIGO.

What ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

IAGO.

Awake! what ho, Brabantio! Thieves, thieves!

Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags!

Thieves, thieves!

Brabantio appears above at a window.

BRABANTIO.

What is the reason of this terrible summons?

What is the matter there?

RODERIGO.

Signior, is all your family within?

IAGO.

Are your doors locked?

BRABANTIO.

Why, wherefore ask you this?

IAGO.

Zounds, sir, you’re robb’d, for shame put on your gown,

Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;

Even now, now, very now, an old black ram

Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise,

Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,

Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you:

Arise, I say.

BRABANTIO.

What, have you lost your wits?

RODERIGO.

Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

BRABANTIO.

Not I. What are you?

RODERIGO.

My name is Roderigo.

BRABANTIO.

The worser welcome.

I have charg’d thee not to haunt about my doors;

In honest plainness thou hast heard me say

My daughter is not for thee; and now in madness,

Being full of supper and distempering draughts,

Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come

To start my quiet.

RODERIGO.

Sir, sir, sir,—

BRABANTIO.

But thou must needs be sure

My spirit and my place have in them power

To make this bitter to thee.

RODERIGO.

Patience, good sir.

BRABANTIO.

What tell’st thou me of robbing?

This is Venice. My house is not a grange.

RODERIGO.

Most grave Brabantio,

In simple and pure soul I come to you.

IAGO.

Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil

bid you. Because we come to do you service, and you think we are

ruffians, you’ll have your daughter cover’d with a Barbary horse;

you’ll have your nephews neigh to you; you’ll have coursers for cousins

and gennets for germans.

BRABANTIO.

What profane wretch art thou?

IAGO.

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are

now making the beast with two backs.

BRABANTIO.

Thou art a villain.

IAGO.

You are a senator.

BRABANTIO.

This thou shalt answer. I know thee, Roderigo.

RODERIGO.

Sir, I will answer anything. But I beseech you,

If ’t be your pleasure, and most wise consent,

(As partly I find it is) that your fair daughter,

At this odd-even and dull watch o’ the night,

Transported with no worse nor better guard,

But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,

To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor:

If this be known to you, and your allowance,

We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs.

But if you know not this, my manners tell me,

We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe

That from the sense of all civility,

I thus would play and trifle with your reverence.

Your daughter (if you have not given her leave)

I say again, hath made a gross revolt,

Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes

In an extravagant and wheeling stranger

Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself:

If she be in her chamber or your house,

Let loose on me the justice of the state

For thus deluding you.

BRABANTIO.

Strike on the tinder, ho!

Give me a taper! Call up all my people!

This accident is not unlike my dream,

Belief of it oppresses me already.

Light, I say, light!

[_Exit from above._]

IAGO.

Farewell; for I must leave you:

It seems not meet nor wholesome to my place

To be produc’d, as if I stay I shall,

Against the Moor. For I do know the state,

However this may gall him with some check,

Cannot with safety cast him, for he’s embark’d

With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,

Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls,

Another of his fathom they have none

To lead their business. In which regard,

Though I do hate him as I do hell pains,

Yet, for necessity of present life,

I must show out a flag and sign of love,

Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him,

Lead to the Sagittary the raised search,

And there will I be with him. So, farewell.

[_Exit._]

Enter Brabantio with Servants and torches.

BRABANTIO.

It is too true an evil. Gone she is,

And what’s to come of my despised time,

Is naught but bitterness. Now Roderigo,

Where didst thou see her? (O unhappy girl!)

With the Moor, say’st thou? (Who would be a father!)

How didst thou know ’twas she? (O, she deceives me

Past thought.) What said she to you? Get more tapers,

Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you?

RODERIGO.

Truly I think they are.

BRABANTIO.

O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood!

Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds

By what you see them act. Is there not charms

By which the property of youth and maidhood

May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo,

Of some such thing?

RODERIGO.

Yes, sir, I have indeed.

BRABANTIO.

Call up my brother. O, would you had had her!

Some one way, some another. Do you know

Where we may apprehend her and the Moor?

RODERIGO.

I think I can discover him, if you please

To get good guard, and go along with me.

BRABANTIO.

Pray you lead on. At every house I’ll call,

I may command at most. Get weapons, ho!

And raise some special officers of night.

On, good Roderigo. I will deserve your pains.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Venice. Another street.

Enter Othello, Iago and Attendants with torches.

IAGO.

Though in the trade of war I have slain men,

Yet do I hold it very stuff o’ the conscience

To do no contriv’d murder; I lack iniquity

Sometimes to do me service: nine or ten times

I had thought to have yerk’d him here under the ribs.

OTHELLO.

’Tis better as it is.

IAGO.

Nay, but he prated,

And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms

Against your honour,

That with the little godliness I have,

I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir,

Are you fast married? Be assur’d of this,

That the magnifico is much belov’d

And hath in his effect a voice potential

As double as the duke’s; he will divorce you,

Or put upon you what restraint and grievance

The law (with all his might to enforce it on)

Will give him cable.

OTHELLO.

Let him do his spite;

My services, which I have done the signiory,

Shall out-tongue his complaints. ’Tis yet to know,—

Which, when I know that boasting is an honour,

I shall promulgate,—I fetch my life and being

From men of royal siege. And my demerits

May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune

As this that I have reach’d. For know, Iago,

But that I love the gentle Desdemona,

I would not my unhoused free condition

Put into circumscription and confine

For the sea’s worth. But look, what lights come yond?

IAGO.

Those are the raised father and his friends:

You were best go in.

OTHELLO.

Not I; I must be found.

My parts, my title, and my perfect soul

Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they?

IAGO.

By Janus, I think no.

Enter Cassio and Officers with torches.

OTHELLO.

The servants of the duke and my lieutenant.

The goodness of the night upon you, friends!

What is the news?

CASSIO.

The duke does greet you, general,

And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance

Even on the instant.

OTHELLO.

What is the matter, think you?

CASSIO.

Something from Cyprus, as I may divine.

It is a business of some heat. The galleys

Have sent a dozen sequent messengers

This very night at one another’s heels;

And many of the consuls, rais’d and met,

Are at the duke’s already. You have been hotly call’d for,

When, being not at your lodging to be found,

The senate hath sent about three several quests

To search you out.

OTHELLO.

’Tis well I am found by you.

I will but spend a word here in the house,

And go with you.

[_Exit._]

CASSIO.

Ancient, what makes he here?

IAGO.

Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carrack:

If it prove lawful prize, he’s made forever.

CASSIO.

I do not understand.

IAGO.

He’s married.

CASSIO.

To who?

Enter Othello.

IAGO.

Marry to—Come, captain, will you go?

OTHELLO.

Have with you.

CASSIO.

Here comes another troop to seek for you.

Enter Brabantio, Roderigo and Officers with torches and weapons.

IAGO.

It is Brabantio. General, be advis’d,

He comes to bad intent.

OTHELLO.

Holla, stand there!

RODERIGO.

Signior, it is the Moor.

BRABANTIO.

Down with him, thief!

[_They draw on both sides._]

IAGO.

You, Roderigo! Come, sir, I am for you.

OTHELLO.

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

Good signior, you shall more command with years

Than with your weapons.

BRABANTIO.

O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow’d my daughter?

Damn’d as thou art, thou hast enchanted her,

For I’ll refer me to all things of sense,

(If she in chains of magic were not bound)

Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy,

So opposite to marriage, that she shunn’d

The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,

Would ever have, to incur a general mock,

Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom

Of such a thing as thou—to fear, not to delight.

Judge me the world, if ’tis not gross in sense,

That thou hast practis’d on her with foul charms,

Abus’d her delicate youth with drugs or minerals

That weakens motion. I’ll have’t disputed on;

’Tis probable, and palpable to thinking.

I therefore apprehend and do attach thee

For an abuser of the world, a practiser

Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.—

Lay hold upon him, if he do resist,

Subdue him at his peril.

OTHELLO.

Hold your hands,

Both you of my inclining and the rest:

Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it

Without a prompter. Where will you that I go

To answer this your charge?

BRABANTIO.

To prison, till fit time

Of law and course of direct session

Call thee to answer.

OTHELLO.

What if I do obey?

How may the duke be therewith satisfied,

Whose messengers are here about my side,

Upon some present business of the state,

To bring me to him?

OFFICER.

’Tis true, most worthy signior,

The duke’s in council, and your noble self,

I am sure is sent for.

BRABANTIO.

How? The duke in council?

In this time of the night? Bring him away;

Mine’s not an idle cause. The duke himself,

Or any of my brothers of the state,

Cannot but feel this wrong as ’twere their own.

For if such actions may have passage free,

Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Venice. A council chamber.

The Duke and Senators sitting at a table; Officers attending.

DUKE.

There is no composition in these news

That gives them credit.

FIRST SENATOR.

Indeed, they are disproportion’d;

My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.

DUKE.

And mine a hundred and forty.

SECOND SENATOR

And mine two hundred:

But though they jump not on a just account,

(As in these cases, where the aim reports,

’Tis oft with difference,) yet do they all confirm

A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.

DUKE.

Nay, it is possible enough to judgement:

I do not so secure me in the error,

But the main article I do approve

In fearful sense.

SAILOR.

[_Within._] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho!

OFFICER.

A messenger from the galleys.

Enter Sailor.

DUKE.

Now,—what’s the business?

SAILOR.

The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes,

So was I bid report here to the state

By Signior Angelo.

DUKE.

How say you by this change?

FIRST SENATOR.

This cannot be

By no assay of reason. ’Tis a pageant

To keep us in false gaze. When we consider

The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk;

And let ourselves again but understand

That, as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,

So may he with more facile question bear it,

For that it stands not in such warlike brace,

But altogether lacks the abilities

That Rhodes is dress’d in. If we make thought of this,

We must not think the Turk is so unskilful

To leave that latest which concerns him first,

Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain,

To wake and wage a danger profitless.

DUKE.

Nay, in all confidence, he’s not for Rhodes.

OFFICER.

Here is more news.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER.

The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,

Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes,

Have there injointed them with an after fleet.

FIRST SENATOR.

Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess?

MESSENGER.

Of thirty sail, and now they do re-stem

Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance

Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano,

Your trusty and most valiant servitor,

With his free duty recommends you thus,

And prays you to believe him.

DUKE.

’Tis certain, then, for Cyprus.

Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?

FIRST SENATOR.

He’s now in Florence.

DUKE.

Write from us to him; post-post-haste dispatch.

FIRST SENATOR.

Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo and Officers.

DUKE.

Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you

Against the general enemy Ottoman.

[_To Brabantio._] I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior,

We lack’d your counsel and your help tonight.

BRABANTIO.

So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me.

Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business

Hath rais’d me from my bed, nor doth the general care

Take hold on me; for my particular grief

Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature

That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,

And it is still itself.

DUKE.

Why, what’s the matter?

BRABANTIO.

My daughter! O, my daughter!

DUKE and SENATORS.

Dead?

BRABANTIO.

Ay, to me.

She is abused, stol’n from me, and corrupted

By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;

For nature so preposterously to err,

Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,

Sans witchcraft could not.

DUKE.

Whoe’er he be, that in this foul proceeding,

Hath thus beguil’d your daughter of herself,

And you of her, the bloody book of law

You shall yourself read in the bitter letter,

After your own sense, yea, though our proper son

Stood in your action.

BRABANTIO.

Humbly I thank your grace.

Here is the man, this Moor, whom now it seems

Your special mandate for the state affairs

Hath hither brought.

ALL.

We are very sorry for ’t.

DUKE.

[_To Othello._] What, in your own part, can you say to this?

BRABANTIO.

Nothing, but this is so.

OTHELLO.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

My very noble and approv’d good masters:

That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,

It is most true; true, I have married her.

The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,

And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace;

For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith,

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us’d

Their dearest action in the tented field,

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,

And therefore little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver

Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am charged withal)

I won his daughter.

BRABANTIO.

A maiden never bold:

Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion

Blush’d at herself; and she, in spite of nature,

Of years, of country, credit, everything,

To fall in love with what she fear’d to look on!

It is judgement maim’d and most imperfect

That will confess perfection so could err

Against all rules of nature, and must be driven

To find out practices of cunning hell,

Why this should be. I therefore vouch again,

That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood,

Or with some dram conjur’d to this effect,

He wrought upon her.

DUKE.

To vouch this is no proof;

Without more wider and more overt test

Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods

Of modern seeming do prefer against him.

FIRST SENATOR.

But, Othello, speak:

Did you by indirect and forced courses

Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections?

Or came it by request, and such fair question

As soul to soul affordeth?

OTHELLO.

I do beseech you,

Send for the lady to the Sagittary,

And let her speak of me before her father.

If you do find me foul in her report,

The trust, the office I do hold of you,

Not only take away, but let your sentence

Even fall upon my life.

DUKE.

Fetch Desdemona hither.

OTHELLO.

Ancient, conduct them, you best know the place.

[_Exeunt Iago and Attendants._]

And till she come, as truly as to heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood,

So justly to your grave ears I’ll present

How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love,

And she in mine.

DUKE.

Say it, Othello.

OTHELLO.

Her father lov’d me, oft invited me,

Still question’d me the story of my life,

From year to year—the battles, sieges, fortunes,

That I have pass’d.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days

To the very moment that he bade me tell it,

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth scapes i’ th’ imminent deadly breach;

Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence,

And portance in my traveler’s history,

Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak,—such was the process;

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline.

But still the house affairs would draw her thence,

Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,

She’d come again, and with a greedy ear

Devour up my discourse; which I observing,

Took once a pliant hour, and found good means

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,

Whereof by parcels she had something heard,

But not intentively. I did consent,

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer’d. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.

She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange;

’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful.

She wish’d she had not heard it, yet she wish’d

That heaven had made her such a man: she thank’d me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov’d her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:

She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d,

And I lov’d her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have us’d.

Here comes the lady. Let her witness it.

Enter Desdemona, Iago and Attendants.

DUKE.

I think this tale would win my daughter too.

Good Brabantio,

Take up this mangled matter at the best.

Men do their broken weapons rather use

Than their bare hands.

BRABANTIO.

I pray you hear her speak.

If she confess that she was half the wooer,

Destruction on my head, if my bad blame

Light on the man!—Come hither, gentle mistress:

Do you perceive in all this noble company

Where most you owe obedience?

DESDEMONA.

My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty:

To you I am bound for life and education.

My life and education both do learn me

How to respect you. You are the lord of duty,

I am hitherto your daughter: but here’s my husband.

And so much duty as my mother show’d

To you, preferring you before her father,

So much I challenge that I may profess

Due to the Moor my lord.

BRABANTIO.

God be with you! I