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This doth not so, for she divideth us:

Some the lark and loathed toad change eyes;

say,

O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Rom. More light and light?—more dark and dark our

woes.

OTHELLO.

OTHELLO'S Address to the Senate.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved 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 blessed with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used

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, unvarnished 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 with.

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Send for the lady to the Sagittary,

And let her speak of me before her father:

If you do find me foul in her report,

The trust, the office, I do hold of you,

Not only take away, but let your sentence

Even fall upon my life.

Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither.

Oth. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place.

And, till she come, as truly as to Heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood,

So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love,
And she in mine.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And portance in my travel's history:

Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak, such was the process;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders.

These things to hear,

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively: I did consent;

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore-In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:

She wished, she had not heard it; yet she wished

That Heaven had made her such a man: she thanked me;

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake:

She loved me for the dangers I had passed;

And I loved her, that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have used;

Here comes the lady, let her witness it.

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Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell, content!

Farewell the plumèd troop, and the big wars
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!

Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,

The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner; and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!

OTHELLO'S Soliloquy before killing DESDEMONA.

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 thine,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat,

That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again;

It needs must wither: I'll smell it on the tree.

[Kisses her

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 this 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.

HAMLET.

HAMLET'S Soliloquy on his Mother's Marriage.

O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting had not fixed

His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature,
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead!—nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a king; that was, to this,

Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on: and yet within a month-
Let me not think on't;-Frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month; or ere those shoes were old,
With which she followed my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears;—why she, even she,—

O Heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourned longer,-married with my uncle,
My father's brother; but no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules: within a month;
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her gallèd eyes,
She married. . . . .

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