Othello, Act 4, Scene 2

You have seen nothing, then?

So you have seen nothing?

Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect.

Nor ever heard anything, nor ever suspected anything.

Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together.

Yes, you have seen Cassio and her together.

But then I saw no harm, and then I heard Each syllable that breath made up between them.

But then I saw no harm in it, and I heard every single syllable they spoke to each other.

What, did they never whisper?

What, did they never whisper?

Never, my lord.

Never, my lord.

Nor send you out o’ the way?

Or send you out of the way?

Never.

Never.

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

To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, or anything at all?

Never, my lord.

Never, my lord.

That’s strange.

That's strange.

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

My lord, I would dare to bet that she is faithful, and stake my soul on it. If you think otherwise, get rid of the thought; it is deceiving your heart. If some wretch has put this idea in your head, may heaven pay him back with the curse laid on the serpent. Because if she is not faithful, chaste and true, then no man is happy: the purest wife any man has is as filthy as slander itself.

Bid her come hither. Go.

Tell her to come here. Go.

She says enough. Yet she’s a simple bawd That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, A closet lock and key of villainous secrets. And yet she’ll kneel and pray. I have seen her do ’t.

She speaks convincingly. Yet any go-between would be a poor one if she couldn't say as much. This is a crafty whore, a locked cabinet holding wicked secrets. And still she'll kneel and pray. I have seen her do it.

My lord, what is your will?

My lord, what do you want?

Pray, chuck, come hither.

Please, sweetheart, come here.

What is your pleasure?

What would you like?

Let me see your eyes. Look in my face.

Let me see your eyes. Look me in the face.

What horrible fancy’s this?

What dreadful notion is this?

[To Emilia.] Some of your function, mistress, Leave procreants alone, and shut the door. Cough, or cry hem, if anybody come. Your mystery, your mystery. Nay, dispatch.

[To Emilia.] Do your usual job, madam: leave the couple alone, and shut the door. Cough, or clear your throat, if anyone comes. Your trade, your trade. Come on, be quick about it.

Upon my knees, what doth your speech import? I understand a fury in your words, But not the words.

On my knees I ask you, what does what you're saying mean? I can hear a rage in your words, but I don't understand the words.

Why, what art thou?

Why, what are you?

Your wife, my lord, your true and loyal wife.

Your wife, my lord, your true and loyal wife.

Come, swear it, damn thyself, Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves Should fear to seize thee. Therefore be double-damn’d. Swear thou art honest.

Go on, swear it, damn yourself, in case, since you look like one of heaven's own, the devils themselves are afraid to lay hands on you. So be damned twice over: swear you are faithful.

Heaven doth truly know it.

Heaven truly knows I am.

Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.

Heaven truly knows you are as false as hell.

To whom, my lord? With whom? How am I false?

To whom, my lord? With whom? How am I false?

O Desdemona, away! away! away!

Oh Desdemona, get away! Away! Away!

Alas the heavy day, why do you weep? Am I the motive of these tears, my lord? If haply you my father do suspect An instrument of this your calling back, Lay not your blame on me. If you have lost him, Why, I have lost him too.

Oh, what a miserable day. Why are you crying? Am I the cause of these tears, my lord? If by chance you suspect that my father brought about your being recalled, don't blame me for it. If you have lost his friendship, well, I have lost it too.

Had it pleas’d heaven To try me with affliction, had they rain’d All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head, Steep’d me in poverty to the very lips, Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes, I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience. But, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at. Yet could I bear that too, well, very well: But there, where I have garner’d up my heart, Where either I must live or bear no life, The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up, to be discarded thence, Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads To knot and gender in!—turn thy complexion there, Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubin, Ay, there, look grim as hell!

If it had pleased heaven to test me with suffering, if they had rained every kind of sore and disgrace down on my bare head, soaked me in poverty right up to the lips, handed me and all my highest hopes over to captivity, I would have found somewhere in my soul a drop of endurance. But, oh, to be made a motionless target for these people's scorn to point its slow, unmoving finger at! Even that I could bear, quite well, very well. But there, in the place where I have stored up my heart, where I must either live or have no life at all, the spring from which my stream flows or else runs dry — to be thrown out of there, or to keep it as a tank for filthy toads to couple and breed in! Change your colour at that sight, Patience, you young cherub with rosy lips. Yes, there, look as grim as hell!

I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.

I hope my noble lord thinks me chaste.

O, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell’st so sweet, That the sense aches at thee, Would thou hadst ne’er been born!

Oh yes, as chaste as the summer flies in the slaughterhouse, that come to life in the very act of laying their eggs. Oh you weed, you who are so lovely and beautiful, and smell so sweet, that the senses ache at you — I wish you had never been born!

Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?

Oh, what sin have I committed without knowing it?

Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write “whore” upon? What committed? Committed! O thou public commoner! I should make very forges of my cheeks, That would to cinders burn up modesty, Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed! Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks; The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets, Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth, And will not hear it. What committed! Impudent strumpet!

Was this beautiful paper, this fine book, made to have "whore" written on it? Committed what! Committed! Oh you public prostitute, open to everyone! I would turn my cheeks into furnaces that would burn modesty itself to ashes, if I so much as described what you have done. Committed what! Heaven holds its nose at it, and the moon shuts her eyes; the lecherous wind, that kisses everything it meets, falls silent in the hollow caves of the earth and refuses to hear it. Committed what! Shameless whore!

By heaven, you do me wrong.

By heaven, you are wronging me.

Are not you a strumpet?

Aren't you a whore?

No, as I am a Christian: If to preserve this vessel for my lord From any other foul unlawful touch Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.

No, as surely as I am a Christian. If keeping this body pure for my husband, free from any other filthy, unlawful touch, is not being a whore, then I am no whore.

What, not a whore?

What, not a whore?

No, as I shall be sav’d.

No, as surely as I hope to be saved.

Is’t possible?

Is that possible?

O, heaven forgive us!

Oh, heaven forgive us!

I cry you mercy then. I took you for that cunning whore of Venice That married with Othello.—You, mistress,

Then I beg your pardon. I mistook you for that crafty whore of Venice who married Othello. — You, madam,

That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keeps the gate of hell. You, you, ay, you! We have done our course; there’s money for your pains. I pray you turn the key, and keep our counsel.

you who have the job opposite to Saint Peter's, and keep the gate of hell. You, you, yes, you! We have finished our business; here's money for your trouble. Please turn the key and keep our secret.

Alas, what does this gentleman conceive? How do you, madam? How do you, my good lady?

Oh, what on earth is this gentleman imagining? How are you, madam? How are you, my good lady?

Faith, half asleep.

Honestly, half asleep.

Good madam, what’s the matter with my lord?

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

With who?

With who?

Why, with my lord, madam.

Why, with my lord, madam.

Who is thy lord?

Who is your lord?

He that is yours, sweet lady.

The one who is your lord, sweet lady.

I have none. Do not talk to me, Emilia, I cannot weep, nor answer have I none But what should go by water. Prithee, tonight Lay on my bed my wedding sheets, remember, And call thy husband hither.

I have no husband. Don't talk to me, Emilia. I cannot cry, and I have no answer to give except one that would come out as tears. Please, tonight put my wedding sheets on my bed — remember — and send your husband here to me.

Here’s a change indeed!

What a change this is!

’Tis meet I should be us’d so, very meet. How have I been behav’d, that he might stick The small’st opinion on my least misuse?

It's fitting that I should be treated like this, very fitting. How have I behaved, that he could fasten even the slightest suspicion on my smallest fault?

What is your pleasure, madam? How is’t with you?

What would you like, madam? How are you?

I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes Do it with gentle means and easy tasks. He might have chid me so, for, in good faith, I am a child to chiding.

I can't say. People who teach small children do it gently, with easy tasks. He could have scolded me that way, because, truly, I am a beginner at being scolded.

What’s the matter, lady?

What's the matter, lady?

Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhor’d her, Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her, As true hearts cannot bear.

Oh, Iago, my lord has called her a whore over and over, and heaped such contempt and such brutal words on her as honest hearts cannot endure.

Am I that name, Iago?

Am I that name, Iago?

What name, fair lady?

What name, dear lady?

Such as she says my lord did say I was.

The one she says my lord called me.

He call’d her whore: a beggar in his drink Could not have laid such terms upon his callet.

He called her a whore: a drunken beggar could not have used such words to the woman he lives with.

Why did he so?

Why did he do that?

I do not know. I am sure I am none such.

I don't know. I'm certain I'm nothing of the kind.

Do not weep, do not weep: alas the day!

Don't cry, don't cry. What a terrible day!

Hath she forsook so many noble matches, Her father, and her country, and her friends, To be call’d whore? would it not make one weep?

Has she given up so many noble offers of marriage, her father, and her country, and her friends, only to be called a whore? Wouldn't that make anyone cry?

It is my wretched fortune.

It's my miserable luck.

Beshrew him for’t! How comes this trick upon him?

Curse him for it! How did he fall into this fit?

Nay, heaven doth know.

Only heaven knows.

I will be hang’d, if some eternal villain, Some busy and insinuating rogue, Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office, Have not devis’d this slander. I’ll be hang’d else.

I'll be hanged if some everlasting villain, some meddling, insinuating rogue, some cheating, swindling scoundrel, hasn't invented this slander to get himself a post. I'll be hanged otherwise.

Fie, there is no such man. It is impossible.

Nonsense, there's no such man. It's impossible.

If any such there be, heaven pardon him!

If there is any such man, heaven forgive him!

A halter pardon him, and hell gnaw his bones! Why should he call her whore? who keeps her company? What place? what time? what form? what likelihood? The Moor’s abused by some most villainous knave, Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow. O heaven, that such companions thou’dst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip To lash the rascals naked through the world Even from the east to the west!

May a hangman's noose forgive him, and hell chew his bones! Why should he call her a whore? Who does she spend time with? Where? When? In what way? What likelihood is there? The Moor is being deceived by some utterly villainous scoundrel, some low, well-known scoundrel, some contemptible fellow. Oh heaven, I wish you would expose such creatures, and put a whip in every decent hand to flog the rascals naked all through the world, from the east right to the west!

Speak within door.

Keep your voice down.

O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was That turn’d your wit the seamy side without, And made you to suspect me with the Moor.

Oh, shame on them! It was some such fellow who turned your mind inside out and made you suspect me with the Moor.

You are a fool. Go to.

You're a fool. Enough of that.

Alas, Iago, What shall I do to win my lord again? Good friend, go to him. For by this light of heaven, I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel. If e’er my will did trespass ’gainst his love, Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, Delighted them in any other form, Or that I do not yet, and ever did, And ever will, (though he do shake me off To beggarly divorcement) love him dearly, Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much; And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. I cannot say “whore,” It does abhor me now I speak the word; To do the act that might the addition earn Not the world’s mass of vanity could make me.

Oh, Iago, what can I do to win my husband back? Good friend, go to him. For by this light of heaven, I don't know how I lost him. Here I kneel. If my will ever offended against his love, either in the way I thought or in anything I actually did, or if my eyes, my ears, or any sense of mine ever took pleasure in any other man, or if I do not still, and always did, and always will love him dearly — even though he shakes me off into a beggarly divorce — then let all comfort abandon me! Unkindness can do a great deal; and his unkindness may destroy my life, but it will never stain my love. I cannot say the word "whore" — it disgusts me even to speak it; and as for doing the act that would earn me that title, not all the world's wealth of empty show could make me do it.

I pray you, be content. ’Tis but his humour. The business of the state does him offence, And he does chide with you.

Please, calm yourself. It's only his mood. The affairs of the state are troubling him, and he is scolding you instead.

If ’twere no other,—

If it were nothing else—

’Tis but so, I warrant.

That's all it is, I promise you.

Hark, how these instruments summon to supper. The messengers of Venice stay the meat. Go in, and weep not. All things shall be well.

Listen, how these trumpets call people to supper. The messengers from Venice are waiting for the food. Go inside, and don't cry. Everything will be well.

How now, Roderigo?

Well now, Roderigo?

I do not find that thou dealest justly with me.

I don't find that you are dealing fairly with me.

What in the contrary?

In what way the opposite?

Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago, and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me all conveniency than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure it. Nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered.

Every day you put me off with some new trick, Iago, and as it seems to me now, you keep every opportunity away from me rather than supplying me with the slightest bit of hope. I really will not put up with it any longer. Nor am I willing yet to swallow quietly what I have already stupidly endured.

Will you hear me, Roderigo?

Will you listen to me, Roderigo?

Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and performances are no kin together.

Honestly, I've listened too much already, because your words and your actions are no relation to each other.

You charge me most unjustly.

You accuse me most unfairly.

With naught but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you have had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a votarist: you have told me she hath received them, and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance, but I find none.

With nothing but the truth. I've spent myself out of everything I own. The jewels you took from me to give to Desdemona would have half corrupted a nun. You've told me she received them, and brought me back promises and assurances of immediate favour and acquaintance, but I find none of it.

Well, go to, very well.

Well, come on, very well.

Very well, go to, I cannot go to, man, nor ’tis not very well. Nay, I say ’tis very scurvy, and begin to find myself fopped in it.

Very well, come on — I can't come on, man, and it isn't very well. No, I say it's utterly contemptible, and I'm beginning to find I've been made a fool of in it.

Very well.

Very well.

I tell you ’tis not very well. I will make myself known to Desdemona. If she will return me my jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my unlawful solicitation. If not, assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you.

I tell you it is not very well. I'll make myself known to Desdemona. If she gives me back my jewels, I'll drop my courtship and repent of my improper approaches. If not, be sure I'll demand satisfaction from you.

You have said now.

You've had your say now.

Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing.

Yes, and said nothing that I don't swear I mean to do.

Why, now I see there’s mettle in thee, and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo. Thou hast taken against me a most just exception, but yet I protest, I have dealt most directly in thy affair.

Well, now I see there's real spirit in you, and from this moment on I build a better opinion of you than I ever had before. Give me your hand, Roderigo. You've raised a perfectly fair objection against me, but still I swear I have handled your business absolutely straight.

It hath not appeared.

It hasn't shown.

I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your suspicion is not without wit and judgement. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now than ever,—I mean purpose, courage, and valour,—this night show it. If thou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery and devise engines for my life.

I admit it hasn't shown, and your suspicion isn't without sense and judgement. But, Roderigo, if you really have in you what I have more reason to believe now than ever — I mean determination, courage, and bravery — show it tonight. If you don't enjoy Desdemona the following night, murder me treacherously and invent instruments of torture to end my life.

Well, what is it? Is it within reason and compass?

Well, what is it? Is it reasonable and possible?

Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice to depute Cassio in Othello’s place.

Sir, a special order has come from Venice appointing Cassio to Othello's post.

Is that true? Why then Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice.

Is that true? Then Othello and Desdemona will go back to Venice.

O, no; he goes into Mauritania, and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be lingered here by some accident: wherein none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio.

Oh, no; he's going to Mauritania, and taking the lovely Desdemona with him, unless something happens to keep him here longer — and nothing could settle that so decisively as getting rid of Cassio.

How do you mean “removing” of him?

What do you mean, "getting rid" of him?

Why, by making him uncapable of Othello’s place: knocking out his brains.

Why, by making him unfit for Othello's post: knocking his brains out.

And that you would have me to do?

And that's what you want me to do?

Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right. He sups tonight with a harlotry, and thither will I go to him. He knows not yet of his honourable fortune. If you will watch his going thence, which I will fashion to fall out between twelve and one, you may take him at your pleasure: I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me. I will show you such a necessity in his death that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste. About it.

Yes, if you dare to do yourself a benefit and get your rights. He's having supper tonight with a whore, and I'm going to meet him there. He doesn't know yet about his honourable promotion. If you'll watch for him leaving there — and I'll arrange for that to happen between twelve and one — you can attack him whenever you like. I'll be close by to back up your attempt, and he'll go down between the two of us. Come on, don't stand there astonished at it; come along with me. I'll show you such a necessity for his death that you'll think you're obliged to carry it out on him. It's high time for supper now, and the night is wearing away. Get to it.

I will hear further reason for this.

I want to hear more reasons for this.

And you shall be satisfied.

And you shall have them.