A bedchamber in the castle.
(Othello; Desdemona; Emilia; Montano; Gratiano; Iago; Lodovico; Cassio; Officers)
Othello enters the bedchamber where Desdemona lies sleeping, considering how it is necessary that she die. He kisses her, almost convincing himself not to kill her, but he steels himself to the task. His kisses wake her. He orders her to pray, informing her that she is about to die. She begs for mercy, denying all of his accusations, but he refuses to listen, and smothers her. Emilia knocks at the door, calling for Othello. Thinking that she has come to tell him of Cassio’s death, he is uncertain what to do, reluctant to let her in lest she try to speak to Desdemona. In the end he lets her in, and she blurts out her news. At that moment Desdemona calls out, and Emilia runs to her and tries to unsuccessfully to revive her. Desdemona insists that nobody did anything to her and dies. Othello calls her a liar and tells Emilia that he killed her. He tells Emilia why, and she is horrified and does not want to believe him when he says that Iago was the one who accused Desdemona. Despite Othello’s threats, she opens the door and yells out for help. Montano, Gratiano and Iago enter, and Emilia begs her husband to deny what Othello has said, but he cannot. He orders her to be quiet and go home, but she refuses, and when Othello brings out the proof of the handkerchief, she tells him that it was she who stole the handkerchief and gave it to Iago. Iago denies it, but Othello sees the truth and rushes at him; Iago stabs Emilia and runs out. The others chase after him, leaving Othello and Emilia with Desdemona’s body. He finds a spare sword in the room and arms himself with it, but does nothing as the extent of what he has done crushes him. Lodovico enters with the injured Cassio and the captured Iago. The story is unraveled, but Iago refuses to give any explanation for what he has done. Lodovico informs Othello that he must come with them to Venice, but Othello begs him to wait a moment; he explains what he has done in the state’s service, and thinking of one last example, he stabs himself. Dying, he drags himself to the bed to kiss Desdemona one last time as he dies. Lodovico plans to return to Venice, begging Cassio to make Iago suffer before he dies. (426 lines)
Enter Othello with a light and Desdemona in her bed asleep.
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars,
It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck’d thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needs must wither. I’ll smell thee on the tree.
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword! One more, one more.
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee
And love thee after. One more, and that’s the last.
So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears. This sorrow’s heavenly,
It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.
Who’s there? Othello?
Will you come to bed, my lord?
Have you pray’d tonight, Desdemon?
Ay, my lord.
If you bethink yourself of any crime
Unreconcil’d as yet to heaven and grace,
Solicit for it straight.
Alack, my lord, what may you mean by that?
Well, do it, and be brief, I will walk by.
I would not kill thy unprepared spirit,
No, heaven forefend! I would not kill thy soul.
Talk you of killing?
Ay, I do.
Have mercy on me!
Amen, with all my heart!
If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.
And yet I fear you; for you’re fatal then
When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I know not,
Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear.
Think on thy sins.
They are loves I bear to you.
Ay, and for that thou di’st.
That death’s unnatural that kills for loving.
Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?
Some bloody passion shakes your very frame.
These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,
They do not point on me.
Peace, and be still!
I will so. What’s the matter?
That handkerchief which I so lov’d, and gave thee,
Thou gav’st to Cassio.
No, by my life and soul!
Send for the man, and ask him.
Sweet soul, take heed,
Take heed of perjury, thou art on thy death-bed.
Ay, but not yet to die.
Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin;
For to deny each article with oath
Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception
That I do groan withal. Thou art to die.
Then Lord have mercy on me!
I say, amen.
And have you mercy too! I never did
Offend you in my life; never lov’d Cassio
But with such general warranty of heaven
As I might love. I never gave him token.
By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in ’s hand.
O perjur’d woman, thou dost stone my heart,
And mak’st me call what I intend to do
A murder, which I thought a sacrifice.
I saw the handkerchief.
He found it then;
I never gave it him. Send for him hither;
Let him confess a truth.
He hath confess’d.
What, my lord?
That he hath us’d thee.
He will not say so.
No—his mouth is stopp’d;
Honest Iago hath ta’en order for’t.
O, my fear interprets. What, is he dead?
Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all.
Alas, he is betray’d and I undone!
Out, strumpet! Weep’st thou for him to my face?
O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!
Kill me tomorrow, let me live tonight!
Nay, an’ you strive—
But half an hour!
Being done, there is no pause.
But while I say one prayer!
It is too late.
O Lord, Lord, Lord!
At the door, within.
My lord, my lord!
What ho! My lord, my lord!
What noise is this? Not dead? Not yet quite dead?
I that am cruel am yet merciful,
I would not have thee linger in thy pain.
What ho! My lord, my lord!
O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you!
Yes.—’Tis Emilia.—By and by.—She’s dead.
’Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death;
The noise was high. Hah, no more moving?
Still as the grave. Shall she come in? Were’t good?
I think she stirs again. No. What’s best to do?
If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife.
My wife, my wife! What wife? I have no wife.
O insupportable! O heavy hour!
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon, and that th’ affrighted globe
Did yawn at alteration.
I do beseech you
That I may speak with you. O, good my lord!
I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia.—
Soft, by and by, let me the curtains draw.—
Where art thou?
Unlocks the door.
What’s the matter with thee now?
O, my good lord, yonder’s foul murders done!
But now, my lord.
It is the very error of the moon,
She comes more nearer earth than she was wont,
And makes men mad.
Cassio, my lord, hath kill’d a young Venetian
And Cassio kill’d?
No, Cassio is not kill’d.
Not Cassio kill’d? Then murder’s out of tune,
And sweet revenge grows harsh.
O, falsely, falsely murder’d!
O Lord, what cry is that?
Out, and alas, that was my lady’s voice.
Help, help, ho, help! O lady, speak again!
Sweet Desdemona, O sweet mistress, speak!
A guiltless death I die.
O, who hath done this deed?
Nobody; I myself. Farewell!
Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!
Why, how should she be murd’red?
Alas! Who knows?
You heard her say herself, it was not I.
She said so; I must needs report the truth.
She’s like a liar gone to burning hell:
’Twas I that kill’d her.
O, the more angel she,
And you the blacker devil!
She turn’d to folly, and she was a whore.
Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil.
She was false as water.
Thou art rash as fire to say
That she was false. O, she was heavenly true!
Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else.
O, I were damn’d beneath all depth in hell
But that I did proceed upon just grounds
To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all.
That she was false to wedlock?
Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true,
If heaven would make me such another world
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,
I’ld not have sold her for it.
Ay, ’twas he that told me on her first.
An honest man he is, and hates the slime
That sticks on filthy deeds.
What needs this iterance, woman? I say thy husband.
O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love!
My husband say she was false?
I say thy husband; dost understand the word?
My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago.
If he say so, may his pernicious soul
Rot half a grain a day! He lies to th’ heart.
She was too fond of her most filthy bargain.
Do thy worst!
This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven
Than thou wast worthy her.
Peace, you were best.
Thou hast not half that pow’r to do me harm
As I have to be hurt. O gull, O dolt,
As ignorant as dirt! Thou hast done a deed—
I care not for thy sword, I’ll make thee known,
Though I lost twenty lives. Help, help, ho, help!
The Moor hath kill’d my mistress! Murder, murder!
Enter Montano, Gratiano, and Iago, with others.
What is the matter? How now, general?
O, are you come, Iago? You have done well,
That men must lay their murders on your neck.
What is the matter?
Disprove this villain, if thou be’st a man.
He says thou toldst him that his wife was false.
I know thou didst not; thou’rt not such a villain.
Speak, for my heart is full.
I told him what I thought, and told no more
Than what he found himself was apt and true.
But did you ever tell him she was false?
You told a lie, an odious, damned lie;
Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.
She false with Cassio? Did you say with Cassio?
With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue.
I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak.
My mistress here lies murdered in her bed—
O heavens forefend!
And your reports have set the murder on.
Nay, stare not, masters, it is true indeed.
’Tis a strange truth.
O monstrous act!
Villainy, villainy, villainy!
I think upon’t, I think—I smell’t—O villainy!
I thought so then—I’ll kill myself for grief—
O villainy! Villainy!
What, are you mad? I charge you get you home.
Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak.
’Tis proper I obey him; but not now.
Perchance, Iago, I will ne’er go home.
O, O, O!
Othello falls on the bed.
Nay, lay thee down and roar;
For thou hast kill’d the sweetest innocent
That e’er did lift up eye.
O, she was foul!
I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece,
Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp’d.
I know this act shows horrible and grim.
Poor Desdemon! I am glad thy father’s dead.
Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,
This sight would make him do a desperate turn,
Yea, curse his better angel from his side,
And fall to reprobance.
’Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows
That she with Cassio hath the act of shame
A thousand times committed. Cassio confess’d it,
And she did gratify his amorous works
With that recognizance and pledge of love
Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand;
It was a handkerchief, an antique token
My father gave my mother.
O God! O heavenly God!
’Zounds, hold your peace.
’Twill out, ’twill out! I peace?
No, I will speak as liberal as the north:
Let heaven and men and devils, let them all,
All, all, cry shame against me, yet I’ll speak.
Be wise, and get you home.
I will not.
Iago offers to stab Emilia.
Your sword upon a woman?
O thou dull Moor, that handkerchief thou speak’st of
I found by fortune, and did give my husband;
For often, with a solemn earnestness
(More than indeed belong’d to such a trifle),
He begg’d of me to steal’t.
She give it Cassio? No, alas, I found it,
And I did give’t my husband.
Filth, thou liest!
By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen.
O murd’rous coxcomb, what should such a fool
Do with so good a wife?
Are there no stones in heaven
But what serves for the thunder?—Precious villain!
The Moor runs at Iago; Montano disarms Othello.
Iago kills his wife.
The woman falls; sure he hath kill’d his wife.
Ay, ay! O, lay me by my mistress’ side.
He’s gone, but his wife’s kill’d.
’Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon
Which I have here recover’d from the Moor.
Come guard the door without; let him not pass,
But kill him rather. I’ll after that same villain,
For ’tis a damned slave.
Exit with all but Othello and Emilia.
I am not valiant neither,
But every puny whipster gets my sword.
But why should honor outlive honesty?
Let it go all.
What did thy song bode, lady?
Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan,
And die in music.
Willow, willow, willow.
Moor, she was chaste; she lov’d thee, cruel Moor;
So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true;
So speaking as I think, alas, I die.
I have another weapon in this chamber;
It was a sword of Spain, the ice-brook’s temper—
O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth.
If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear:
Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer.
Look in upon me then and speak with me,
Or naked as I am I will assault thee.
What is the matter?
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!
Enter Lodovico, Cassio in a chair, Montano, and Iago guarded, with Officers.
Where is this rash and most unfortunate man?
That’s he that was Othello; here I am.
Where is that viper? Bring the villain forth.
I look down towards his feet; but that’s a fable.
If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee.
Wrench his sword from him.
I bleed, sir, but not kill’d.
I am not sorry neither, I’ld have thee live;
For in my sense, ’tis happiness to die.
O thou Othello, that was once so good,
Fall’n in the practice of a damned slave,
What shall be said to thee?
Why, any thing:
An honorable murderer, if you will;
For nought I did in hate, but all in honor.
This wretch hath part confess’d his villainy.
Did you and he consent in Cassio’s death?
Dear general, I never gave you cause.
I do believe it, and I ask your pardon.
Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil
Why he hath thus ensnar’d my soul and body?
Demand me nothing; what you know, you know:
From this time forth I never will speak word.
What? Not to pray?
Torments will ope your lips.
Well, thou dost best.
Sir, you shall understand what hath befall’n,
Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter
Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo,
And here another. The one of them imports
The death of Cassio to be undertook
Most heathenish and most gross!
Now here’s another discontented paper,
Found in his pocket too; and this it seems
Roderigo meant t’ have sent this damned villain;
But that, belike, Iago in the nick
Came in and satisfied him.
O thou pernicious caitiff!—
How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief
That was my wive’s?
I found it in my chamber:
And he himself confess’d it but even now,
That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose
Which wrought to his desire.
O fool, fool, fool!
There is besides, in Roderigo’s letter,
How he upbraids Iago, that he made him
Brave me upon the watch, whereon it came
That I was cast; and even but now he spake
(After long seeming dead) Iago hurt him,
Iago set him on.
You must forsake this room and go with us.
Your power and your command is taken off,
And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave,
If there be any cunning cruelty
That can torment him much, and hold him long,
It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest,
Till that the nature of your fault be known
To the Venetian state. Come, bring away.
Soft you; a word or two before you go.
I have done the state some service, and they know’t—
No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak
Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand
(Like the base Indian) threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdu’d eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drops tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinable gum. Set you down this;
And say besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduc’d the state,
I took by th’ throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him—thus.
He stabs himself.
O bloody period!
All that is spoke is marr’d.
I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee. No way but this,
Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.
Falls on the bed and dies.
This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon;
For he was great of heart.
O Spartan dog,
More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea!
Look on the tragic loading of this bed;
This is thy work. The object poisons sight,
Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house,
And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor,
For they succeed on you. To you, Lord Governor,
Remains the censure of this hellish villain,
The time, the place, the torture, O, enforce it!
Myself will straight aboard, and to the state
This heavy act with heavy heart relate.