Othello, Act 1, Scene 3

There is no composition in these news That gives them credit.

There's no agreement in these reports that makes them believable.

Indeed, they are disproportion’d; My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.

Indeed, they don't match. My letters say a hundred and seven ships.

And mine a hundred and forty.

And mine say 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.

SECOND SENATOR And mine two hundred. But although they don't agree on an exact count — as in cases like this, where the number is a guess, the reports often differ — still they all confirm that there is a Turkish fleet, and that it is heading for Cyprus.

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.

Yes, it's quite possible when you think it over. I don't take comfort in the discrepancy to the point of feeling safe; I accept the main point, and it frightens me.

[Within.] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho!

[Offstage.] Hello there! Hello there! Hello there!

A messenger from the galleys.

A messenger from the ships.

Now,—what’s the business?

Now — what's the news?

The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes, So was I bid report here to the state By Signior Angelo.

The Turkish force is heading for Rhodes. That's what Signior Angelo told me to report here to the state.

How say you by this change?

What do you make of this change?

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.

It can't possibly be true, by any test of reason. It's a show put on to keep us looking the wrong way. When we consider how important Cyprus is to the Turk, and then remind ourselves that, as it matters more to him than Rhodes does, so he could also take it with far less of a struggle, since it isn't so strongly fortified but completely lacks the defences Rhodes is equipped with — if we think about this, we mustn't imagine the Turk is so clumsy as to leave until last the thing he wants first, passing up an easy and profitable venture in order to stir up and fight a danger that brings him nothing.

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

No, with complete confidence, he isn't going for Rhodes.

Here is more news.

Here's more news.

The Ottomites, reverend and gracious, Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes, Have there injointed them with an after fleet.

Respected and gracious lords, the Ottomans, sailing on a straight course toward the island of Rhodes, have joined up there with a second fleet.

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

Yes, that's what I thought. How many, at your guess?

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.

Thirty ships. And now they have turned around and are retracing their course, openly showing that they mean to go toward Cyprus. Signior Montano, your loyal and very brave officer, sends you this report with his willing service, and asks you to trust him.

’Tis certain, then, for Cyprus. Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?

Then it's certainly Cyprus. Marcus Luccicos — isn't he in town?

He’s now in Florence.

He's in Florence now.

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

Write to him from us; send it off with the greatest possible speed.

Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

Here come Brabantio and the brave Moor.

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.

Brave Othello, we must send you out at once against our common enemy, the Turk. [To Brabantio.] I didn't see you; welcome, noble sir. We needed your advice and your help tonight.

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.

And I needed yours. Forgive me, your grace. It wasn't my official position, nor anything I heard about state business, that got me out of bed, and it isn't the public crisis that grips me; for my own private grief is so much like a burst floodgate, so overwhelming, that it gulps down and swallows every other sorrow, and remains as great as ever.

Why, what’s the matter?

Why, what's the matter?

My daughter! O, my daughter!

My daughter! Oh, my daughter!

Dead?

Dead?

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.

Yes, as far as I'm concerned. She has been deceived, stolen from me, and corrupted by spells and drugs bought from quacks. For nature couldn't go so unnaturally wrong — since she isn't defective, blind, or lacking in her senses — without witchcraft.

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.

Whoever he may be who by this foul behaviour has cheated your daughter out of her own self, and you out of her, you shall read the bloody book of law yourself, in its harshest wording, and interpret it as you please — yes, even if it were my own son you brought the charge against.

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.

I thank your grace humbly. Here is the man — this Moor, whom, it seems, your special order about state business has brought here.

We are very sorry for ’t.

We're very sorry to hear it.

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

[To Othello.] Well, what can you say to this for your part?

Nothing, but this is so.

Nothing, except that this is how it is.

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.

Most powerful, serious and respected gentlemen, my very noble and well-proven good masters: that I have taken away this old man's daughter is absolutely true; it's true, I have married her. That is the whole extent of my offence, no more. I am rough in my speech, and hardly gifted with the smooth language of peacetime; for since these arms of mine were seven years strong, until now, some nine months ago, they have done their finest work on the battlefield, and I can speak of little in this great world beyond what has to do with fighting and battle; and so I shall do my case little credit by speaking for myself. Still, with your gracious permission, I'll give you a plain, straightforward account of the whole course of my love — what drugs, what charms, what spells and what powerful magic I used to win his daughter, since that is what I am accused of.

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.

A girl who was never forward; so calm and quiet in spirit that her own impulses made her blush at herself. And she, against her own nature, against her age, her country, her reputation, everything, fell in love with what she was afraid to look at! It's a crippled and badly flawed judgement that would admit that perfection like hers could go so far astray against all the laws of nature, and it has to be forced to look for the workings of cunning hell to explain why this should happen. So I say again, that with some mixture powerful over the blood, or some potion charmed for this purpose, he worked on her.

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.

To assert this is no proof, without broader and more open evidence than these flimsy appearances and weak probabilities of everyday guesswork bring against him.

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?

But speak, Othello. Did you, by devious and violent means, overcome and poison this young girl's feelings? Or did it happen by asking, and the sort of honest conversation that one soul offers another?

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.

I beg you, send for the lady at the Sagittary, and let her speak about me in front of her father. If you find me guilty by her account, then not only take away the trust and the office I hold from you, but let your sentence fall on my life itself.

Fetch Desdemona hither.

Bring Desdemona here.

Ancient, conduct them, you best know the place.

Ensign, take them there; you know the place best.

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.

And until she comes, as truthfully as I confess my sins to heaven, so honestly I'll tell your serious ears how I succeeded in this fair lady's love, and she in mine.

Say it, Othello.

Tell us, 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.

Her father loved me, often invited me over, and always asked me for the story of my life, year by year — the battles, the sieges, the twists of luck that I had been through. I went through it all, right from my boyhood up to the very moment when he asked me to tell it. In it I spoke of the most disastrous pieces of bad luck, of stirring events by sea and land, of narrow escapes in the deadly gap of a breached wall, of being captured by the arrogant enemy and sold into slavery, and of my ransom from there, and of how I conducted myself in my travels — in which it was my cue to speak of huge caves and empty deserts, rough stone pits, cliffs and mountains whose tops touch heaven. That was how it went. And of the Cannibals who eat each other, the Anthropophagi, and men whose heads grow beneath their shoulders. Desdemona would listen to all this with real attention. But the household jobs kept pulling her away, and whenever she could finish them off quickly she'd come back and with a hungry ear devour my talk. Noticing this, I once found a convenient moment and a good way to get her to ask me, from her heart, to tell the whole story of my travels at length — she'd heard bits and pieces of it, but not from start to finish. I agreed, and often brought tears from her when I spoke of some painful blow that I suffered in my youth. When my story was finished, she gave me a world of sighs for my trouble. She swore that, truly, it was strange, extremely strange; it was pitiful, incredibly pitiful. She wished she hadn't heard it, and yet she wished that heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me, and told me that if I had a friend who loved her, I should just teach him how to tell my story, and that would win her. At this hint I spoke: she loved me for the dangers I had been through, and I loved her because she pitied them. This is the only witchcraft I have used. Here comes the lady; let her confirm it.

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.

I think this story would win my daughter too. Good Brabantio, make the best of this ruined business. Men would rather use their broken weapons than their bare hands.

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?

Please, hear her speak. If she admits that she did half the wooing, let destruction fall on my head if I wrongly blame the man! Come here, gentle lady: in all this noble company, do you see anyone you owe more obedience to than anyone else?

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.

My noble father, I see that my duty here is divided. I owe you my life and my upbringing, and both my life and my upbringing teach me to respect you. You are my master in duty; up to now I have been your daughter. But here is my husband. And the same duty that my mother showed you, putting you before her own father, that much I claim the right to declare I owe to the Moor, my lord.

God be with you! I have done. Please it your grace, on to the state affairs. I had rather to adopt a child than get it.— Come hither, Moor: I here do give thee that with all my heart Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee.—For your sake, jewel, I am glad at soul I have no other child, For thy escape would teach me tyranny, To hang clogs on them.—I have done, my lord.

God be with you! I'm finished. If it pleases your grace, let's go on to the business of the state. I'd rather adopt a child than father one. Come here, Moor: I give you here, with all my heart, what — if you didn't already have it — with all my heart I would keep from you. As for you, my jewel, I'm glad in my soul that I have no other child, because your running off would teach me to be a tyrant and put chains on them. I'm finished, my lord.

Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence, Which as a grise or step may help these lovers Into your favour. When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when fortune takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb’d that smiles steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

Let me speak for you, and offer a maxim which, like a stair or a step, may help these lovers up into your favour. When the cures are used up, the griefs are over, since we've seen the worst — which not long ago still hung on hopes. To grieve over a disaster that is past and gone is the surest way to bring new disaster on. When fortune takes away what can't be kept, patience makes a joke of the injury she does. The robbed man who smiles steals something back from the thief; the man who wastes himself on useless grief robs himself.

So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile, We lose it not so long as we can smile; He bears the sentence well, that nothing bears But the free comfort which from thence he hears; But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow. These sentences to sugar or to gall, Being strong on both sides, are equivocal: But words are words; I never yet did hear That the bruis’d heart was pierced through the ear. I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state.

Then let the Turk cheat us out of Cyprus — we haven't lost it as long as we can smile. Advice is easy to bear for the man who has to bear nothing but the free comfort he gets from it; but the man who has to bear both the advice and the sorrow, and must borrow from his scanty patience to pay off his grief, bears both. These maxims can be sweet or bitter — they work both ways, so they mean nothing definite. But words are only words; I have never yet heard that a bruised heart was healed through the ear. I humbly beg you, go on to the business of the state.

The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you. And though we have there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on you: you must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition.

The Turk is heading for Cyprus with an enormous force. Othello, you know the defensive strength of the place best. And although we have a deputy there of fully acknowledged competence, still public opinion, which rules the outcome of things, votes more confidently for you. So you must be content to smear the fresh shine of your new marriage with this rough and stormy campaign.

The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnize A natural and prompt alacrity I find in hardness, and do undertake This present wars against the Ottomites. Most humbly, therefore, bending to your state, I crave fit disposition for my wife, Due reference of place and exhibition, With such accommodation and besort As levels with her breeding.

Tyrant habit, most serious senators, has made the hard stone-and-steel bed of war into my bed of triple-beaten down. I recognise a natural and eager readiness in myself when I meet hardship, and I accept this present war against the Ottomans. So, most humbly bowing to your authority, I ask you to arrange suitable provision for my wife — proper lodging appropriate to her rank, and an allowance, with such comforts and attendance as match her upbringing.

If you please, Be’t at her father’s.

If you like, let it be at her father's house.

I’ll not have it so.

I won't have that.

Nor I.

Nor will I.

Nor I. I would not there reside, To put my father in impatient thoughts, By being in his eye. Most gracious duke, To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear, And let me find a charter in your voice T’ assist my simpleness.

Nor will I. I wouldn't want to live there, putting my father in an irritated frame of mind by being under his eye. Most gracious duke, lend a favourable ear to what I have to say, and let me find in your voice a permission to support my helplessness.

What would you, Desdemona?

What do you want, Desdemona?

That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence and storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world: my heart’s subdued Even to the very quality of my lord. I saw Othello’s visage in his mind, And to his honours and his valiant parts Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, A moth of peace, and he go to the war, The rites for which I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall support By his dear absence. Let me go with him.

That I loved the Moor in order to live with him, my blunt defiance and the storm I have brought down on my life can proclaim to the world. My heart has been won over entirely to my husband's very nature. I saw Othello's face in his mind, and I dedicated my soul and my fortunes to his honours and his brave qualities. So, dear lords, if I'm left behind, a useless idler in peacetime, while he goes to the war, I'm robbed of the very things I love him for, and I'll have to endure a heavy stretch of time while he's away from me, dear as he is. Let me go with him.

Let her have your voice. Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not To please the palate of my appetite, Nor to comply with heat, the young affects In me defunct, and proper satisfaction, But to be free and bounteous to her mind. And heaven defend your good souls that you think I will your serious and great business scant For she is with me. No, when light-wing’d toys Of feather’d Cupid seel with wanton dullness My speculative and offic’d instruments, That my disports corrupt and taint my business, Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And all indign and base adversities Make head against my estimation.

Give her your consent. Heaven bear me witness, I'm not asking this to satisfy my own appetite, nor to indulge lust — the passions of youth are dead in me — nor for my own private pleasure, but to be generous and open-handed to her wishes. And heaven protect your good souls from thinking that I'll shortchange your serious and important business because she is with me. No — when the light, feathery playthings of Cupid blind my alert, official faculties with lustful sluggishness, so that my pleasures spoil and pollute my work, then let housewives turn my helmet into a cooking pot, and let every shameful and low disaster rise up against my reputation.

Be it as you shall privately determine, Either for her stay or going. The affair cries haste, And speed must answer it.

Let it be as you two decide between yourselves, whether she stays or goes. The business demands haste, and haste must answer it.

You must away tonight.

You must leave tonight.

With all my heart.

Gladly.

At nine i’ the morning here we’ll meet again. Othello, leave some officer behind, And he shall our commission bring to you, With such things else of quality and respect As doth import you.

We'll meet here again at nine in the morning. Othello, leave one officer behind, and he'll bring you your commission, along with anything else of rank and privilege that concerns you.

So please your grace, my ancient, A man he is of honesty and trust, To his conveyance I assign my wife, With what else needful your good grace shall think To be sent after me.

If it pleases your grace, my standard-bearer — he is a man of honesty and trust — to his escort I entrust my wife, along with whatever else your good grace thinks it necessary to send after me.

Let it be so. Good night to everyone. [To Brabantio.] And, noble signior, If virtue no delighted beauty lack, Your son-in-law is far more fair than black.

Let it be so. Good night to everyone. [To Brabantio.] And, noble sir, if goodness lacks no delightful beauty, your son-in-law is far more fair than black.

Adieu, brave Moor, use Desdemona well.

Goodbye, splendid Moor. Treat Desdemona well.

Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see: She has deceiv’d her father, and may thee.

Watch her, Moor, if you have eyes to see: she has deceived her father, and she may deceive you.

My life upon her faith! Honest Iago, My Desdemona must I leave to thee. I prithee, let thy wife attend on her, And bring them after in the best advantage.— Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour Of love, of worldly matters, and direction, To spend with thee. We must obey the time.

I stake my life on her faithfulness! Honest Iago, I must leave my Desdemona with you. Please, have your wife look after her, and bring them on as soon as the opportunity is best. Come, Desdemona, I have only an hour to spend with you, for love, for practical business and for giving instructions. We must do as the occasion demands.

Iago—

Iago—

What sayst thou, noble heart?

What do you say, noble heart?

What will I do, thinkest thou?

What do you think I'm going to do?

Why, go to bed and sleep.

Why, go to bed and sleep.

I will incontinently drown myself.

I'll go straight off and drown myself.

If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman!

If you do, I'll never care for you again. Why, you helpless gentleman!

It is silliness to live, when to live is torment; and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.

It's helpless folly to go on living when living is torture; and we have a doctor's orders to die when death is our physician.

O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon.

Oh, disgraceful! I have been watching the world for twenty-eight years, and since I could tell the difference between a benefit and an injury, I have never found a man who knew how to love himself. Before I would say I'd drown myself for the love of some fancy hen of a woman, I'd trade my humanity with a baboon.

What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue to amend it.

What should I do? I admit it's shameful for me to be so foolishly in love, but it isn't in my strength of character to cure it.

Virtue! a fig! ’Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners. So that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions. But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect, or scion.

Strength of character! Rubbish! It's in ourselves that we are one way or the other. Our bodies are gardens, and our wills are the gardeners of them. So that whether we choose to plant nettles or sow lettuce, put in hyssop and pull out thyme, stock it with one kind of herb or fill it with many varieties, whether to let it go barren through neglect or make it rich by hard work — why, the power and the correcting authority for this lies in our wills. If the scales of our lives did not have one pan of reason to balance another of sensuality, the blood and the baseness of our natures would lead us to utterly monstrous outcomes. But we have reason to cool our raging impulses, our bodily urges, our unbridled lusts; and among those I count this thing you call love, as an offshoot, a cutting.

It cannot be.

It can't be that.

It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man. Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favour with an usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor,—put money in thy purse,—nor he his to her. It was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration—put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills. Fill thy purse with money. The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts shall be to him shortly as acerb as the coloquintida. She must change for youth. When she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice. She must have change, she must. Therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! It is clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her.

It is nothing but a craving of the blood and something the will allows. Come on, be a man. Drown yourself? Drown cats and blind puppies. I have declared myself your friend, and I admit that I am bound to your cause with ropes of everlasting strength; I could never be more use to you than now. Put money in your purse; go along to the wars; disguise your face with a false beard. I say, put money in your purse. It can't be that Desdemona will go on loving the Moor for long — put money in your purse — nor he her. It was a violent beginning, and you'll see a matching break-up — only put money in your purse. These Moors are changeable in what they want. Fill your purse with money. The food that tastes as sweet to him now as honey will soon be as bitter to him as a bitter apple. She must change to someone young. When she has had enough of his body, she will see the mistake she made in choosing. She must have a change, she must. So put money in your purse. If you absolutely must damn yourself, do it in a nicer way than drowning. Raise all the money you can. If pretended holiness and a fragile vow between a wandering foreigner and an over-clever Venetian woman are not too much for my brains and all the tribe of hell, you shall have her; so get money. To hell with drowning yourself! It's completely beside the point. Try rather to be hanged getting what you want than to be drowned and have to do without her.

Wilt thou be fast to my hopes if I depend on the issue?

Will you stand firmly by my hopes if I stake everything on the outcome?

Thou art sure of me. Go, make money. I have told thee often, and I retell thee again and again, I hate the Moor. My cause is hearted; thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered. Traverse, go, provide thy money. We will have more of this tomorrow. Adieu.

You can count on me. Go, get money. I have told you often, and I tell you again and again, I hate the Moor. My reason is rooted in my heart; yours has just as much cause. Let us join together in our revenge against him. If you can make him a cuckold, you give yourself a pleasure and me a piece of entertainment. There are many things in the womb of time that will be born. March off, go, get your money together. We'll talk more of this tomorrow. Goodbye.

Where shall we meet i’ the morning?

Where shall we meet in the morning?

At my lodging.

At my lodgings.

I’ll be with thee betimes.

I'll be with you early.

Go to, farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo?

Go on, then, goodbye. Do you hear me, Roderigo?

What say you?

What do you say?

No more of drowning, do you hear?

No more talk of drowning, do you hear?

I am changed. I’ll sell all my land.

I've changed my mind. I'll sell all my land.

Thus do I ever make my fool my purse. For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane If I would time expend with such a snipe But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor, And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets He has done my office. I know not if ’t be true, But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, Will do as if for surety. He holds me well, The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio’s a proper man. Let me see now, To get his place, and to plume up my will In double knavery. How, how? Let’s see. After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smooth dispose, To be suspected, fram’d to make women false. The Moor is of a free and open nature That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are. I have’t. It is engender’d. Hell and night Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light.

This is how I always make my fool my money-bag. I would be disgracing the knowledge I've earned if I spent time with such a long-billed idiot of a bird for anything but my own amusement and profit. I hate the Moor, and it is said around town that he has taken my place between my sheets. I don't know whether it's true, but I, on mere suspicion of that kind, will act as if it were certain. He thinks well of me; my plan will work on him all the better for that. Cassio is a good-looking man. Let me see now: to get his position, and to give my desire fine feathers with a double piece of villainy. How? How? Let's see. After a while, to poison Othello's ear that Cassio is too intimate with his wife. He has the looks and the smooth manner to be suspected — built to make women unfaithful. The Moor has a generous and open nature, one that thinks men honest who only seem so, and he will be led by the nose as easily as donkeys are. I have it. It's conceived. Hell and night must bring this monstrous birth into the light of the world.