Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

      Signior, is all your family within?

      Are your doors locked?

                                             Why, wherefore ask you this?

      Zounds, sir, you're robb'd; for shame, put on your gown;

      Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;

      Even now, now, very now, an old black ram

      Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise;

      Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,

      Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you:

      Arise, I say.

                          What, have you lost your wits?

      Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

      Not I; what are you?

      My name is Roderigo.

                                           The worser welcome:

      I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors;

      In honest plainness thou hast heard me say

      My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness,

      Being full of supper and distempering draughts,

      Upon malicious bravery dost thou come

      To start my quiet.

      Sir, sir, sir, —

                            But thou must needs be sure

      My spirit and my place have in them power

      To make this bitter to thee.

                                                  Patience, good sir.

      What tell'st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;

      My house is not a grange.

                                                Most grave Brabantio,

      In simple and pure soul I come to you.

      What profane wretch art thou?

      Thou art a villain.

                                    You are – a senator.

      This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo.

      Sir, I will answer anything. But, I beseech you,

      If 't be your pleasure and most wise consent, —

      As partly I find it is, – that your fair daughter,

      At this odd-even and dull watch o' the night,

      Transported with no worse nor better guard

      But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,

      To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor, —

      If this be known to you, and your allowance,

      We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs;

      But if you know not this, my manners tell me

      We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe

      That, from the sense of all civility,

      I thus would play and trifle with your reverence:

      Your daughter, – if you have not given her leave, —

      I say again, hath made a gross revolt;

      Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes

      In an extravagant and wheeling stranger

      Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself:

      If she be in her chamber or your house

      Let loose on me the justice of the state

      For thus deluding you.

                                           Strike on the tinder, ho!

      Give me a taper! – Call up all my people! —

      This accident is not unlike my dream:

      Belief of it oppresses me already. —

      Light, I say! light!

                                     Farewell; for I must leave you:

      It seems not meet nor wholesome to my place

      To be produc'd, – as if I stay I shall, —

      Against the Moor: for I do know the state, —

      However this may gall him with some check, —

      Cannot with safety cast him; for he's embark'd

      With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, —

      Which even now stand in act, – that, for their souls,

      Another of his fathom they have none

      To lead their business: in which regard,

      Though I do hate him as I do hell pains,

      Yet, for necessity of present life,

      I must show out a flag and sign of love,

      Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him,

      Lead to the Sagittary the raisèd search;

      And there will I be with him. So, farewell.

      It is too true an evil: gone she is;

      And what's to come of my despisèd time

      Is