Page 1556 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

OTHELLO

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; [5]
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 thine, [10]
Thou cunning pattern of excelling nature,

I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume: when I have pluck’d the rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It must needs wither; I’ll smell it on the tree, [15]
Kisses her.

A balmy breath, that doth almost persuade
Justice herself to break her sword: once more:
Be thus, when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,

And love thee after: once more, and this the last,
So sweet was ne’er so fatal: I must weep, [20]
But they are cruel tears; this sorrow’s heavenly,
It strikes when it does love: she wakes.

DESDEMONA
Who’s there? Othello?

OTHELLO
Ay, Desdemona.

DESDEMONA

Will you come to bed, my lord?

OTHELLO

Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemona?

DESDEMONA