Уильям Шекспир - Othello, the Moor of Venice

Down with him, thief!

You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you.

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. —
Good signior, you shall more command with years
Than with your weapons.

O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter?
Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her;
For I'll refer me to all things of sense,
If she in chains of magic were not bound,
Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy,
So opposite to marriage that she shunn'd
The wealthy curlèd darlings of our nation,
Would ever have, to incur a general mock,
Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom
Of such a thing as thou, – to fear, not to delight.
Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense
That thou hast practis'd on her with foul charms;
Abus'd her delicate youth with drugs or minerals
That weaken motion: – I'll have't disputed on;
'Tis probable, and palpable to thinking.
I therefore apprehend and do attach thee
For an abuser of the world, a practiser
Of arts inhibited and out of warrant. —
Lay hold upon him: if he do resist,
Subdue him at his peril.

Hold your hands,
Both you of my inclining and the rest:
Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it
Without a prompter. – Where will you that I go
To answer this your charge?

To prison; till fit time
Of law and course of direct session
Call thee to answer.

What if I do obey?
How may the duke be therewith satisfied,
Whose messengers are here about my side,
Upon some present business of the state,
To bring me to him?

'Tis true, most worthy signior;
The duke's in council, and your noble self,
I am sure, is sent for.

How! the duke in council!
In this time of the night! – Bring him away:
Mine's not an idle cause: the duke himself,
Or any of my brothers of the state,
Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own;
For if such actions may have passage free,
Bond slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.

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

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

And mine a hundred and forty.

And mine two hundred:
But though they jump not on a just account, —
As in these cases, where the aim reports,
'Tis oft with difference, – yet do they all confirm
A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.

Nay, it is possible enough to judgement:
I do not so secure me in the error,
But the main article I do approve
In fearful sense.

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

A messenger from the galleys.

Now, – what's the business?

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

How say you by this change?

This cannot be,
By no assay of reason: 'tis a pageant
To keep us in false gaze. When we consider
The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk;
And let ourselves again but understand
That, as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,
So may he with more facile question bear it,
For that it stands not in such warlike brace,
But altogether lacks the abilities
That Rhodes is dress'd in. If we make thought of this,
We must not think the Turk is so unskilful
To leave that latest which concerns him first;
Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain,
To wake and wage a danger profitless.

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

Here is more news.

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

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

Of thirty sail: and now they do re-stem
Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance
Their purposes toward Cyprus. – Signior Montano,
Your trusty and most valiant servitor,
With his free duty recommends you thus,
And prays you to believe him.

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

He's now in Florence.

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

Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you
Against the general enemy Ottoman. —
[To Brabantio.] I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior;
We lack'd your counsel and your help to-night.

So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me;
Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business
Hath rais'd me from my bed; nor doth the general care
Take hold on me; for my particular grief
Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,
And it is still itself.

Why, what's the matter?

My daughter! O, my daughter!

Dead?

Ay, to me;
She is abused, stol'n from me, and corrupted
By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;
For nature so preposterously to err,
Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,
Sans witchcraft could not.

Whoe'er he be that, in this foul proceeding,
Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself,
And you of her, the bloody book of law
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter
After your own sense; yea, though our proper son
Stood in your action.

Humbly I thank your grace.
Here is the man, this Moor; whom now, it seems,
Your special mandate for the state affairs
Hath hither brought.

We are very sorry for't.

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

Nothing, but this is so.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv'd good masters, —
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her:
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver
Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic, —
For such proceeding I am charged withal, —
I won his daughter.