Othello, Act 2, Scene 1

What from the cape can you discern at sea?

What can you make out at sea from the headland?

Nothing at all, it is a high-wrought flood. I cannot ’twixt the heaven and the main Descry a sail.

Nothing at all. The sea is running very high. I can't spot a single sail between the sky and the open water.

Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land. A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements. If it hath ruffian’d so upon the sea, What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?

It seems to me the wind has been shouting on land. A stronger gust has never shaken our fortifications. If it has raged as violently as that out at sea, what oak ribs can keep their joints together when mountains of water collapse on them? What news will we get of all this?

A segregation of the Turkish fleet. For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds, The wind-shak’d surge, with high and monstrous main, Seems to cast water on the burning Bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole; I never did like molestation view On the enchafed flood.

The scattering of the Turkish fleet. Just stand on the foaming shore: the scolded waves seem to be hurling themselves at the clouds, and the wind-shaken swell, with its huge, monstrous mass, seems to fling water up at the burning Bear and put out the stars that guard the ever-fixed pole. I have never seen such a disturbance on an angry sea.

If that the Turkish fleet Be not enshelter’d, and embay’d, they are drown’d. It is impossible to bear it out.

If the Turkish fleet hasn't found shelter in some bay, they have drowned. It's impossible to ride it out.

News, lads! Our wars are done. The desperate tempest hath so bang’d the Turks That their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet.

News, men! Our war is over. The furious storm has battered the Turks so badly that their plan has come to a stop. A noble ship from Venice has witnessed a terrible wreck and suffering across most of their fleet.

How? Is this true?

What? Is this true?

The ship is here put in, A Veronessa; Michael Cassio, Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, Is come on shore; the Moor himself at sea, And is in full commission here for Cyprus.

The ship has come into harbour here, a ship of Verona. Michael Cassio, lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, has come ashore. The Moor himself is still at sea, and has full authority here in Cyprus.

I am glad on’t. ’Tis a worthy governor.

I'm glad of it. He's a worthy governor.

But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly, And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted With foul and violent tempest.

But this same Cassio, although he speaks cheerfully about the Turkish losses, still looks serious, and prays the Moor is safe, since they were separated by a foul, violent storm.

Pray heavens he be; For I have serv’d him, and the man commands Like a full soldier. Let’s to the sea-side, ho! As well to see the vessel that’s come in As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, Even till we make the main and the aerial blue An indistinct regard.

I pray to heaven he is safe, because I have served under him, and the man commands like a complete soldier. Let's go down to the shore! Both to see the ship that has come in and to strain our eyes looking for the splendid Othello, until the sea and the blue sky blur into one thing we can't tell apart.

Come, let’s do so; For every minute is expectancy Of more arrivance.

Come on, let's do that, because every minute we expect more arrivals.

Thanks you, the valiant of this warlike isle, That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens Give him defence against the elements, For I have lost him on a dangerous sea.

Thank you, brave men of this warlike island, who think so well of the Moor! Oh, may heaven protect him against the elements, because I lost sight of him on a dangerous sea.

Is he well shipp’d?

Is his ship a good one?

His bark is stoutly timber’d, and his pilot Of very expert and approv’d allowance; Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure.

His ship is strongly built, and his pilot is highly skilled and of proven reputation. So my hopes, which haven't been fed to the point of sickness, are confident of being fulfilled.

[Within.] A sail, a sail, a sail!

[Offstage.] A sail, a sail, a sail!

What noise?

What's that noise?

The town is empty; on the brow o’ the sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry “A sail!”

The town is empty. Rows of people are standing on the cliff above the sea, and they're shouting "A sail!"

My hopes do shape him for the governor.

My hopes make it out to be the governor.

They do discharge their shot of courtesy. Our friends at least.

They're firing a salute of greeting. Friends of ours, at least.

I pray you, sir, go forth, And give us truth who ’tis that is arriv’d.

Please, sir, go out and bring us the truth about who has arrived.

I shall.

I will.

But, good lieutenant, is your general wiv’d?

But, good lieutenant, is your general married?

Most fortunately: he hath achiev’d a maid That paragons description and wild fame, One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, And in the essential vesture of creation Does tire the ingener.

Most luckily. He has won a young woman who goes beyond description and beyond the wildest reports, one who surpasses the clever flourishes of writers' pens, and who, in the plain beauty she was created with, exhausts the artist who tries to capture her.

How now? Who has put in?

Well? Who has come into harbour?

’Tis one Iago, ancient to the general.

It's a man called Iago, the general's officer.

He has had most favourable and happy speed: Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds, The gutter’d rocks, and congregated sands, Traitors ensteep’d to clog the guiltless keel, As having sense of beauty, do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona.

He has had a remarkably favourable and lucky voyage. The storms themselves, the high seas, the howling winds, the jagged rocks and the massed sandbanks — traitors lying submerged to trap an innocent keel — as if they could feel beauty, set aside their deadly natures and let the divine Desdemona pass safely by.

What is she?

Who is she?

She that I spake of, our great captain’s captain, Left in the conduct of the bold Iago; Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts A se’nnight’s speed. Great Jove, Othello guard, And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath, That he may bless this bay with his tall ship, Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms, Give renew’d fire to our extincted spirits, And bring all Cyprus comfort!

The woman I spoke of, our great commander's commander, left in the care of the bold Iago. Her landing here is a week sooner than we expected. Great Jove, guard Othello, and fill his sail with your own powerful breath, so that he may bless this bay with his tall ship, breathe love's quick panting in Desdemona's arms, give fresh fire to our extinguished spirits, and bring comfort to all Cyprus!

O, behold, The riches of the ship is come on shore! Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven, Before, behind thee, and on every hand, Enwheel thee round!

Oh, look, the ship's treasure has come ashore! You men of Cyprus, kneel to her. Greetings to you, my lady, and may the grace of heaven surround you, in front of you, behind you, and on every side!

I thank you, valiant Cassio. What tidings can you tell me of my lord?

Thank you, brave Cassio. What news can you give me of my husband?

He is not yet arrived, nor know I aught But that he’s well, and will be shortly here.

He hasn't arrived yet, and I know nothing except that he's well and will be here soon.

O, but I fear—How lost you company?

Oh, but I'm afraid— How did you lose each other?

[Within.] A sail, a sail!

[Offstage.] A sail, a sail!

The great contention of the sea and skies Parted our fellowship. But, hark! a sail.

The great struggle between sea and sky separated our company. But listen — a sail!

They give their greeting to the citadel. This likewise is a friend.

They're saluting the fortress. This one is a friend as well.

See for the news.

Go and find out the news.

Good ancient, you are welcome. [To Emilia.] Welcome, mistress. Let it not gall your patience, good Iago, That I extend my manners; ’tis my breeding That gives me this bold show of courtesy.

Welcome, good officer. [To Emilia.] Welcome, madam. Don't let it annoy you, good Iago, that I take this liberty; it's my upbringing that makes me show courtesy so boldly.

Sir, would she give you so much of her lips As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, You would have enough.

Sir, if she gave you as much of her lips as she often gives me of her tongue, you'd have had more than enough.

Alas, she has no speech.

Come now, she says hardly anything.

In faith, too much. I find it still when I have list to sleep. Marry, before your ladyship, I grant, She puts her tongue a little in her heart, And chides with thinking.

Honestly, far too much. I always notice it when I want to sleep. Though in front of your ladyship, I admit, she keeps her tongue tucked into her heart a little, and scolds me in her thoughts.

You have little cause to say so.

You have very little reason to say that.

Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlours, wild-cats in your kitchens, Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.

Come on, come on. You women are pictures out of doors, bells ringing in your living rooms, wildcats in your kitchens, saints when you do the wrong, devils when you're wronged, idlers at your housekeeping, and hard workers in your beds.

O, fie upon thee, slanderer!

Oh, shame on you, you slanderer!

Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk. You rise to play, and go to bed to work.

No, it's true, or else I'm a Turk. You get up to play and go to bed to work.

You shall not write my praise.

You won't be the one to write my praise.

No, let me not.

No, don't ask me to.

What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?

What would you write about me, if you were to praise me?

O gentle lady, do not put me to’t, For I am nothing if not critical.

Oh, gentle lady, don't make me do it, because I'm nothing if not fault-finding.

Come on, assay.—There’s one gone to the harbour?

Come on, try. — Has someone gone to the harbour?

Ay, madam.

Yes, madam.

I am not merry, but I do beguile The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.— Come, how wouldst thou praise me?

I'm not cheerful, but I disguise what I really am by pretending otherwise. — Come, how would you praise me?

I am about it, but indeed, my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze, It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours, And thus she is deliver’d. If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one’s for use, the other useth it.

I'm working on it, but honestly, my ideas come out of my head the way sticky birdlime comes off coarse wool: it pulls the brains out with it. But my Muse is in labour, and here's what she gives birth to: If she is beautiful and clever, beauty and brains — the one is there to be used, and the other knows how to use it.

Well prais’d! How if she be black and witty?

Well praised! What if she's dark and clever?

If she be black, and thereto have a wit, She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit.

If she's dark, and clever with it, she'll find a fair man to match her darkness.

Worse and worse.

Worse and worse.

How if fair and foolish?

What if she's beautiful and stupid?

She never yet was foolish that was fair, For even her folly help’d her to an heir.

No beautiful woman was ever stupid, because even her foolishness got her a child and heir.

These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i’ the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that’s foul and foolish?

These are old, foolish riddles to make idiots laugh in the pub. What wretched praise do you have for the woman who is ugly and stupid?

There’s none so foul and foolish thereunto, But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.

There's no woman so ugly, and stupid as well, that she doesn't play the same dirty tricks the beautiful, clever ones do.

O heavy ignorance! Thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that in the authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?

Oh, what dull ignorance! You give the highest praise to the worst. But what praise could you give to a truly deserving woman, one who by the authority of her own worth could rightly claim the good word of malice itself?

She that was ever fair and never proud, Had tongue at will and yet was never loud, Never lack’d gold and yet went never gay, Fled from her wish, and yet said, “Now I may”; She that, being anger’d, her revenge being nigh, Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly; She that in wisdom never was so frail To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail; She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind, See suitors following and not look behind; She was a wight, if ever such wight were—

The woman who was always beautiful and never proud, who could speak well when she chose and yet was never loud, who never lacked money and yet never dressed showily, who ran away from what she wanted even when she could say, "Now I may have it"; the woman who, when she was angry and her revenge was within reach, told her injury to stay and her anger to go; the woman whose judgement was never so weak that she would trade something good for something worthless; the woman who could think and never reveal her mind, who could see suitors following her and not look behind her; she was a creature, if such a creature ever existed—

To do what?

To do what?

To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.

To nurse babies and keep the household accounts of weak beer.

O most lame and impotent conclusion!—Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband.—How say you, Cassio? is he not a most profane and liberal counsellor?

Oh, what a feeble, useless conclusion!—Don't learn anything from him, Emilia, even though he's your husband.—What do you say, Cassio? Isn't he a most irreverent and coarse adviser?

He speaks home, madam. You may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar.

He speaks bluntly, madam. You'll enjoy him more as a soldier than as a scholar.

[Aside.] He takes her by the palm. Ay, well said, whisper. With as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do. I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true, ’tis so, indeed. If such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt to play the sir in. Very good; well kissed, an excellent courtesy! ’Tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips? Would they were clyster-pipes for your sake!

[Aside.] He's taking her by the hand. Yes, well done, whisper. With a web as small as this I'll trap a fly as big as Cassio. Yes, smile at her, go on. I'll shackle you with your own courtly manners. You're right, that's how it is, indeed. If tricks like these strip you of your lieutenant's post, you'd have done better not to kiss your three fingers so often, as you're eager to do again now to play the fine gentleman. Very good; well kissed, an excellent bow! That's how it is, indeed. Your fingers to your lips again? I wish they were enema tubes, for your sake!

The Moor! I know his trumpet.

The Moor! I recognize his trumpet call.

’Tis truly so.

It really is.

Let’s meet him, and receive him.

Let's go to meet him and welcome him.

Lo, where he comes!

Look, here he comes!

O my fair warrior!

Oh, my beautiful warrior!

My dear Othello!

My dear Othello!

It gives me wonder great as my content To see you here before me. O my soul’s joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken’d death! And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas Olympus-high, and duck again as low As hell’s from heaven! If it were now to die, ’Twere now to be most happy, for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate.

It amazes me as much as it delights me to see you here ahead of me. Oh, joy of my soul! If such calm weather comes after every storm, then let the winds blow until they have woken death itself! And let the struggling ship climb hills of water as high as Olympus and dive down again as low as hell is from heaven! If I had to die now, it would be the happiest moment, because I'm afraid my soul has such complete contentment now that no other joy to equal this one will come to me in the future.

The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!

Heaven forbid that our love and happiness shouldn't keep increasing as our days go on!

Amen to that, sweet powers! I cannot speak enough of this content. It stops me here; it is too much of joy: And this, and this, the greatest discords be [They kiss.] That e’er our hearts shall make!

Amen to that, kind gods! I can't say enough about this happiness. It chokes me here; it's too much joy. And this, and this, be the worst discord [They kiss.] our hearts ever make!

[Aside.] O, you are well tun’d now, But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music, As honest as I am.

[Aside.] Oh, you are nicely in tune now, but I'll loosen the pegs that keep this music in tune, as surely as I'm honest.

Come, let us to the castle.— News, friends, our wars are done, the Turks are drown’d. How does my old acquaintance of this isle? Honey, you shall be well desir’d in Cyprus; I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet, I prattle out of fashion, and I dote In mine own comforts.—I prithee, good Iago, Go to the bay and disembark my coffers. Bring thou the master to the citadel; He is a good one, and his worthiness Does challenge much respect.—Come, Desdemona, Once more well met at Cyprus.

Come, let's go to the castle.—News, friends: our war is over, the Turks have drowned. How are my old friends on this island? Sweetheart, you'll be very welcome in Cyprus; I've found much affection among these people. Oh, my sweet, I'm chattering wildly and I'm doting on my own happiness.—Please, good Iago, go down to the bay and have my chests unloaded. Bring the ship's captain to the fortress; he's a good man, and his worth deserves great respect.—Come, Desdemona, once more, welcome to Cyprus.

Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. Come hither. If thou be’st valiant—as, they say, base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them—list me. The lieutenant tonight watches on the court of guard: first, I must tell thee this: Desdemona is directly in love with him.

Meet me at the harbour at once. Come here. If you're brave—and they say that low-born men in love have a nobility in their natures greater than they were born with—listen to me. The lieutenant is on guard duty tonight at the guardhouse. First, I must tell you this: Desdemona is straightforwardly in love with him.

With him? Why, ’tis not possible.

With him? Why, that's not possible.

Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging, and telling her fantastical lies. And will she love him still for prating? Let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed. And what delight shall she have to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should be, again to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favour, sympathy in years, manners, and beauties; all which the Moor is defective in: now, for want of these required conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor, very nature will instruct her in it, and compel her to some second choice. Now sir, this granted (as it is a most pregnant and unforced position) who stands so eminently in the degree of this fortune as Cassio does? a knave very voluble; no further conscionable than in putting on the mere form of civil and humane seeming, for the better compassing of his salt and most hidden loose affection? Why, none, why, none! A slipper and subtle knave, a finder out of occasions; that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself: a devilish knave! Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green minds look after. A pestilent complete knave, and the woman hath found him already.

Put your finger on your lips like this, and let your soul be taught something. Notice how violently she fell in love with the Moor, and only for his boasting and telling her fantastic lies. And will she go on loving him for that chatter? Don't let your sensible heart believe it. Her eyes need feeding. And what pleasure will she get from looking at the devil? When the blood is dulled by the act of lovemaking, there should be, to fire it up again and give a fresh appetite to satisfaction, attractive looks, a match in age, manners and beauty—all of which the Moor lacks. Now, lacking these necessary agreeable qualities, her sensitive feelings will find themselves cheated, will begin to feel sick, will dislike and loathe the Moor. Nature itself will teach her this and force her to make a second choice. Now, sir, granted this—and it's an obvious and unforced conclusion—who stands so clearly next in line for this good fortune as Cassio does? A very smooth-talking scoundrel, with no conscience beyond putting on the absolute appearance of polite and courteous behaviour, so that he can better achieve his lecherous and most secret loose desires. Why, no one, no one at all! A slippery and cunning scoundrel, a man who spots opportunities, whose eye can coin and forge opportunities even when no real opportunity ever appears. A devilish scoundrel! Besides, the scoundrel is handsome, young, and has all the qualities in him that foolishness and inexperienced minds look for. A thoroughly pestilent scoundrel, and the woman has already found him out.

I cannot believe that in her, she is full of most blessed condition.

I can't believe that of her; she's full of the most blessed disposition.

Blest fig’s end! the wine she drinks is made of grapes: if she had been blessed, she would never have loved the Moor. Blessed pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? Didst not mark that?

Blessed, nonsense! The wine she drinks is made of grapes like anyone else's. If she'd been blessed, she would never have fallen in love with the Moor. Blessed rubbish! Didn't you see her playing with the palm of his hand? Didn't you notice that?

Yes, that I did. But that was but courtesy.

Yes, I did see that. But that was only politeness.

Lechery, by this hand. An index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips that their breaths embrac’d together. Villainous thoughts, Roderigo! When these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, the incorporate conclusion. Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me. I have brought you from Venice. Watch you tonight. For the command, I’ll lay’t upon you. Cassio knows you not. I’ll not be far from you. Do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline, or from what other course you please, which the time shall more favourably minister.

Lust, I swear by this hand. A table of contents and a dark prologue to the whole story of lust and filthy thoughts. Their lips came so close together that their breaths embraced. Wicked thoughts, Roderigo! When such exchanges lead the way like this, the main event follows immediately behind—the joining of their bodies. Ugh! But, sir, let me guide you. I'm the one who brought you from Venice. Stand watch tonight. As for the order to do so, I'll arrange that for you. Cassio doesn't know you. I won't be far away from you. Find some excuse to make Cassio angry, either by talking too loudly, or by criticizing the way he keeps discipline, or by whatever other method you like, whichever the occasion supplies more favourably.

Well.

All right.

Sir, he is rash, and very sudden in choler, and haply with his truncheon may strike at you: provoke him that he may, for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose qualification shall come into no true taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them, and the impediment most profitably removed, without the which there were no expectation of our prosperity.

Sir, he's hot-headed and very quick to anger, and he may well hit you with his club. Provoke him so that he does, because out of that I'll get the people of Cyprus to riot, and their mood won't be settled again except by Cassio's removal from office. That way you'll have a shorter road to what you want, by the means I'll then have to advance your cause, and the obstacle will be very usefully cleared away, without which there would be no hope of our success.

I will do this, if I can bring it to any opportunity.

I'll do this, if I can find any chance to.

I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel: I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewell.

I promise you that. Meet me shortly at the fortress. I have to bring his belongings ashore. Goodbye.

Adieu.

Adieu.

That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it; That she loves him, ’tis apt, and of great credit: The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble nature; And, I dare think, he’ll prove to Desdemona A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too, Not out of absolute lust (though peradventure I stand accountant for as great a sin) But partly led to diet my revenge, For that I do suspect the lusty Moor Hath leap’d into my seat. The thought whereof Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards, And nothing can or shall content my soul Till I am even’d with him, wife for wife, Or, failing so, yet that I put the Moor At least into a jealousy so strong That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do, If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip, Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb (For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too) Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me For making him egregiously an ass And practicing upon his peace and quiet Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confus’d. Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d.

That Cassio loves her, I fully believe. That she loves him is likely and very credible. The Moor, although I can't stand him, has a constant, loving, noble nature; and I dare say he'll prove to be a most devoted husband to Desdemona. Now, I love her too—not out of sheer lust, though possibly I'm guilty of just as great a sin—but partly to feed my revenge, because I suspect that lustful Moor has jumped into my place. The thought of it gnaws at my insides like a corrosive poison, and nothing can or will satisfy my soul until I'm even with him, wife for wife. Or, if I fail at that, at least until I've put the Moor into a jealousy so strong that reason can't cure it. And to do that, if this worthless trash from Venice, whom I keep on a leash to check his eager hunting, holds up under the urging, I'll get our Michael Cassio at a disadvantage, slander him to the Moor in the coarsest terms—because I'm afraid Cassio may wear my nightcap too—make the Moor thank me, love me and reward me for making him an outrageous fool and working on his peace of mind until he goes mad. It's here in my head, but still tangled. Villainy's true face is never seen until it's put into action.