Othello, Act 4, Scene 2

You have seen nothing, then?

So you have seen nothing?

Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect.

I never heard anything either, and I never suspected anything.

Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together.

Yes you have — you've seen Cassio and her together.

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

But even then I saw nothing wrong, and I heard every single syllable that passed between them.

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 she is faithful, and stake my soul on it. If you think otherwise, get rid of the thought; it is wronging 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 isn't faithful, chaste and true, then no man is happy. The purest wife any of them has is as filthy as slander.

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 enough. Yet any madam is a poor one who can't say as much. This is a clever whore, a locked cupboard full of wicked secrets. And still she'll kneel and pray — I've seen her do it.

My lord, what is your will?

My lord, what do you want?

Pray, chuck, come hither.

Please, chick, 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 horrible idea 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 who are breeding alone, and shut the door. Cough, or clear your throat loudly, if anyone comes. Your trade, your trade. Go 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, what does your speech 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 then, swear it, damn yourself — otherwise, since you look like one of heaven's own, the devils themselves might be afraid to take hold of you. So be damned twice over. Swear you are faithful.

Heaven doth truly know it.

Heaven knows the truth of it.

Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.

Heaven knows the truth: that you are as false as hell.

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

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 reason for these tears, my lord? If by any chance you suspect that my father had a hand in your being recalled, don't put the blame on me. 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 down every kind of sore and disgrace on my bare head, plunged me in poverty right up to the lips, handed me and all my highest hopes over into captivity, I would have found somewhere in my soul a drop of patience. But, alas, to be made a fixed statue for this scornful age to point its slow, unmoving finger at! And yet I could bear even that, well enough, 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 dries up — to be shut out from there, or to keep it as a tank for filthy toads to twist together and breed in! Change your colour at that sight, Patience, you young, rose-lipped cherub — yes, there, look as grim as hell!

I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.

I hope my noble lord thinks me faithful.

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 faithful as summer flies in the slaughterhouse, that come to life the moment they are laid. Oh you weed, you who are so 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 lovely paper, this beautiful book, made so that the word "whore" could be written on it? What have you committed? Committed! Oh, you public property! If I were even to say out loud what you've done, I would turn my cheeks into furnaces that would burn modesty to ashes. What have you committed! Heaven holds its nose at it, and the moon shuts her eyes; the filthy wind, which kisses everything it meets, has gone silent in the hollow caves of the earth, and refuses to hear about it. What have you committed! Shameless prostitute!

By heaven, you do me wrong.

By heaven, you are wronging me.

Are not you a strumpet?

Aren't you a prostitute?

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 for my husband alone, free from any other filthy, unlawful touch, doesn't make me a prostitute, then I am not one.

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 hold the post opposite to Saint Peter's and keep the gate of hell. You, you, yes, you! We've 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 can this gentleman be 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 yours, 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 none. 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.

Here’s a change indeed!

This is a change, and no mistake!

’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 right that I should be treated like this, entirely right. How have I behaved, that he could pin even the smallest suspicion on my slightest fault?

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

What do you want, 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 little babies do it gently, with easy tasks. He could have scolded me that way, because honestly, I am a child when it comes to 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 so often, and thrown such contempt and such brutal words at her, that no true heart could stand it.

Am I that name, Iago?

Am I that name, Iago?

What name, fair lady?

What name, fair lady?

Such as she says my lord did say I was.

The name she says my lord said I was.

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 couldn't have thrown such words at his woman.

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 like that.

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 turned down so many noble suitors, left 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?

A curse on him for it! How did this strange notion get into him?

Nay, heaven doth know.

No — 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 endless villain, some meddling, insinuating rogue, some cheating, swindling slave trying to get a post, hasn't invented this slander. 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, may 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!

Let a hangman's noose forgive him, and let hell gnaw 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 has been deceived by some utterly villainous scoundrel, some low, notorious scoundrel, some filthy fellow. Oh heaven, I wish you would expose such creatures, and put a whip in every honest hand to lash 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 that turned your mind inside out to show the ugly seams, 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 shall I do to win my husband back? Good friend, go to him. By this light of heaven, I don't know how I lost him. Here I kneel. If ever my will 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 if 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 now that I've said it; and as for doing the act that would earn me that title, not all the world's mass of glittering vanities 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. Affairs of state are annoying him, and he's taking it out on you in scolding.

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 those trumpets call people to supper. The messengers from Venice are waiting for the food. Go inside, and don't cry. Everything will be all right.

How now, Roderigo?

Well, what is it, Roderigo?

I do not find that thou dealest justly with me.

I don't think you're treating me fairly.

What in the contrary?

In what way am I not?

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 trick, Iago, and it seems to me now that you're keeping every opportunity away from me rather than supplying me with the slightest bit of hope. I really won't put up with it any longer. Nor am I convinced yet that I should quietly swallow what I've already foolishly 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 very 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 all my money. The jewels you've had from me to give to Desdemona would have half corrupted a nun. You told me she had received them, and brought me back promises and assurances of prompt attention and intimacy, but I find nothing of the sort.

Well, go to, very well.

Well, come on, that's fine.

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.

"Fine," "come on" — I can't come on, man, and it isn't fine. In fact I say it's utterly rotten, and I'm beginning to find I've been made a fool of in it.

Very well.

That's fine.

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 isn't fine. I'll introduce myself to Desdemona. If she'll give me back my jewels, I'll drop my courtship and repent my improper approach. 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 I've said nothing that I don't declare 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 very moment I build a better opinion of you than ever before. Give me your hand, Roderigo. You've raised a perfectly fair objection against me, but still I swear I've handled your business absolutely straightforwardly.

It hath not appeared.

It hasn't looked that way.

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 looked that way, 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 by the next night you're not enjoying Desdemona, then have me murdered by treachery and invent machines to take 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 in Othello's place.

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

Is that true? Then Othello and Desdemona are going 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 beautiful Desdemona away with him, unless his stay here is drawn out by some accident — and nothing could be so decisive in that as the removal of Cassio.

How do you mean “removing” of him?

What do you mean by "removing" him?

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

Why, by making him incapable of holding 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 do yourself a good turn and get your rights. He's having supper tonight with a prostitute, and I'll go to meet him there. He doesn't know yet about his honourable promotion. If you'll watch for him leaving there — which I'll arrange to happen between twelve and one — you can take him whenever you like. I'll be close by to back up your attempt, and he'll fall between the two of us. Come on, don't stand there astonished, come with me. I'll show you such a good reason for his death that you'll think yourself obliged to deal it out to him. It's now well past supper time, and the night is running away. Get to it.

I will hear further reason for this.

I want to hear more of your reasoning for this.

And you shall be satisfied.

And you'll be satisfied.