Behold, I have a weapon;
A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier’s thigh. I have seen the day
That with this little arm, and this good sword,
I have made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop. But (O vain boast!)
Who can control his fate? ’tis not so now.
Be not afraid though you do see me weapon’d;
Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismay’d? ’Tis a lost fear;
Man but a rush against Othello’s breast,
And he retires. Where should Othello go?
Now—how dost thou look now? O ill-starr’d wench,
Pale as thy smock! When we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?
Even like thy chastity. O cursed, cursed slave!
Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur!
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!
O Desdemon! Dead, Desdemon! Dead!