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 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 spoken loudly on land. A stronger gust has never shaken our walls. If it has raged like a thug out on the sea, what ribs of oak can hold their joints together when mountains of water come crashing down on them? What news will we hear of 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 wave seems to hurl itself at the clouds, the wind-shaken swell, with its huge and monstrous mass, seems to throw water on the burning Bear and put out the guards of the ever-fixed pole star. I have never seen such a disturbance on the 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're 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 violent storm has battered the Turks so badly that their plan has come to a stop. A noble Venetian ship has witnessed a terrible wreck and damage to 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 he 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, though he brings comforting news about the Turkish losses, still looks sad, and prays that the Moor is safe, because they were separated by a foul and 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.

Pray to heaven that he is safe. I have served under him, and the man commands like a complete soldier. Let's go down to the shore, come on! Both to see the ship that has come in and to strain our eyes looking for brave Othello, until the sea and the blue sky blur together into one indistinct sight.

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, for thinking so well of the Moor! Oh, may the heavens defend him against the elements, for 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, not overfed to the point of dying, are confident of a good outcome.

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

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

What noise?

What's that shouting?

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

The town is emptied out. Rows of people are standing on the edge of the shore, 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 courtesy. Friends of ours, at any rate.

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 surpasses description and the wildest reports, who is beyond the clever flourishes of praising pens, and in the plain essential clothing of her natural form 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 someone called Iago, the general's ensign.

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 and howling winds, the jagged rocks and massed sandbanks, traitors lying submerged to snag the innocent keel, as though they had a sense of beauty, set aside their deadly natures and let the divine Desdemona pass by safely.

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 one I spoke of, our great captain's captain, left in the charge of the bold Iago, whose landing here comes 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, gasp quickly with love in Desdemona's arms, give new fire to our burnt-out 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! Men of Cyprus, kneel to her. Greetings to you, my lady! And may the grace of heaven, in front of you, behind you, and on every side, circle all around you!

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

I 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 company with 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 skies separated us. 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 too.

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.

Good ensign, you're welcome. [To Emilia.] Welcome, madam. Don't let it wear out your patience, good Iago, that I take this liberty; it's my upbringing that makes me so forward in showing courtesy.

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 more than enough.

Alas, she has no speech.

Come now, she says nothing at all.

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, she says far too much. I always find it so when I want to sleep. Though in front of your ladyship, I admit, she tucks her tongue a little into her heart and scolds by thinking.

You have little cause to say so.

You have 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 in your sitting rooms, wild cats in your kitchens, saints when you do the wrong, devils when you're wronged, idle actresses at housekeeping, and hard workers in your beds.

O, fie upon thee, slanderer!

Oh, shame on 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 writing my praises.

No, let me not.

No, don't let me.

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 I'm not critical.

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 birdlime comes off coarse wool — it pulls out brains and all. But my Muse is in labour, and here's what she gives birth to: If she's beautiful and clever, beauty and wit — the one is there to be used, 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 has wit as well, she'll find a fair man who suits her darkness.

Worse and worse.

Worse and worse.

How if fair and foolish?

What if she's beautiful and foolish?

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

No woman who was beautiful was ever foolish, 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 stale, silly paradoxes to make fools laugh in the alehouse. What miserable praise do you have for the woman who is ugly and foolish?

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 foolish besides who 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-witted nonsense! You give your best praise to the worst kind. But what praise could you give to a woman who truly deserves it, 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—

A woman who was always beautiful and never proud; who could speak 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'm allowed to have it"; a woman who, when she was angry and her revenge was within reach, told the wrong done to her to wait and let her anger go; a woman whose judgement was never so weak that she would trade the cod's head for the salmon's tail; a woman who could have thoughts and never reveal her mind, who could see suitors following her and not look back; 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 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 take lessons from him, Emilia, even though he's your husband.—What do you say, Cassio? Isn't he a thoroughly irreverent and coarse adviser?

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

He speaks bluntly to the point, 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, nicely done, whisper away. 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 gallantry. You're right, that's how it is, indeed. If tricks like these strip you of your lieutenancy, you'd have done better not to kiss your three fingers so often, as you're so ready to do again now to play the 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 know 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 pleases me to see you here ahead of me. Oh, joy of my soul! If calms like this come 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 plunge down again as far as hell is from heaven! If I had to die now, now would be the happiest time, because I'm afraid my soul has such complete contentment that no other joy like this one will ever come in the fate that's still unknown.

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

May heaven forbid anything but that our love and our happiness should increase just as our days increase!

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, sweet powers! I can't find words enough for this happiness. It chokes me here; it's too much joy. And may this, and this, be the greatest discords [They kiss.] our hearts will 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're finely tuned now, but I'll loosen the pegs that make this music, as honest as I am.

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 fighting is over, the Turks are drowned. How are my old friends on this island? Sweetheart, you'll be very much welcomed in Cyprus; I've found great affection among these people. Oh, my sweet, I'm chattering on out of all measure, and I'm doting on my own happiness.—Please, good Iago, go down to the bay and get my chests unloaded. Bring the ship's captain to the citadel; he's a good man, and his worth deserves great respect.—Come, Desdemona, once again, well met in 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.

You meet me at the harbour right away. Come here. If you're brave—as they say low-born men in love have a nobility in them beyond what they're born with—listen to me. The lieutenant is on guard duty tonight at the guardhouse. First, I have to 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 to your lips like this, and let your mind be taught. Notice how violently she first 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 chattering? 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, then, to fire it up again and give a fresh appetite to a satisfied one, there needs to be attractiveness of face, a match in age, manners and beauty—all of which the Moor lacks. Now, for lack of these necessary comforts, her delicate sensitivity will find itself cheated, will start to gag, will turn away from the Moor and loathe him; her very nature will teach her that and force her to make a second choice. Now, sir, granting this—and it's a very obvious and natural conclusion—who stands so plainly next in line for that piece of luck as Cassio does? A very smooth-talking scoundrel, with no more conscience than to put on a mere show of polite and decent appearance, so as to get at his lecherous and most hidden loose desires. Why, nobody, nobody at all! A slippery, clever scoundrel, a hunter of opportunities, with an eye that can invent and fake advantages even when no real advantage shows itself. A devilish scoundrel! Besides, the scoundrel is handsome, young, and has every quality in him that foolishness and inexperienced minds look for. A thoroughly poisonous scoundrel, and the woman has already picked 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 qualities.

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, my foot! The wine she drinks is made of grapes, like anyone's. If she'd been blessed, she'd never have loved the Moor. Blessed nonsense! Didn't you see her fondling 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 it 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. An opening list of contents and a dark prologue to the whole history of lust and filthy thoughts. Their lips came so close together that their breaths embraced. Wicked thoughts, Roderigo! When exchanges like these lead the way, right behind them comes the main event, the joining of bodies. Ugh! But, sir, let me guide you. I've brought you here from Venice. You be on watch tonight. As for getting you the assignment, I'll arrange that for you. Cassio doesn't know you. I won't be far away from you. You find some excuse to make Cassio angry—either by talking too loudly, or by criticising his handling of discipline, or by whatever other method you like, whichever the moment offers more conveniently.

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 hasty and very quick-tempered, and he may well hit you with his baton. Provoke him into doing it, because from that I'll stir up these people of Cyprus into a riot, and their calming down will never come about except by removing Cassio from his post. That way you'll have a shorter road to what you want, through the means I'll then have of advancing your case, and the obstacle will be very usefully cleared away—and without that there'd be no hope of success for us.

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

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

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

I promise you there'll be one. Meet me soon at the citadel. 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 well believe; that she loves him is likely and very credible. The Moor, although I can't stand him, has a steady, loving, noble nature, and I'm ready to think he'll prove 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 that fails, at least until I've put the Moor into a jealousy so powerful that reason can't cure it. And to get that done, if this wretched hound of Venice, whom I keep on a leash to check his eager hunting, holds up under the urging, I'll have our Michael Cassio at a disadvantage, slander him to the Moor in the coarsest terms—for I'm afraid Cassio wears my nightcap too—make the Moor thank me, love me and reward me for making an outrageous fool of him and working on his peace of mind right up to madness. It's all here, but still muddled. Villainy's real face is never seen until it's put to work.