Othello

For when my outward action doth demonstrate
That native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, ’tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
Tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes
In an extravagant and wheeling stranger
Of here and everywhere.
Our bodies are gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners.
A liberal hand: the hearts of old gave hands;
But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.
No, let me know;
And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.
Heaven truly knows that thou are false as hell.
Desdemona: Woulds’t thou do such a deed for the world?
Emilia: The world’s a huge thing: It is not a great price
For a small vice.
Why, the wrong is but a wrong in the world; and having the world for your labour, ’tis a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it right.
He hath a daily beauty in his life
That makes me ugly.
Othello: It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,—
Let me not name it to you, you chase 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. [Takes off his sword
Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, though flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me: — but once put out they 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 it on the tree. —
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break hers word! —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.
She was false as water.
If heaven would make me such another world
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,
I’d not have sold it for her.
Thou has not half that power to do me harm
As I have to be hurt.
…Curse his better angel from his side
I will play the swan, and die in music.