Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

                                             Holla! stand there!

      Signior, it is the Moor.

                                           Down with him, thief!

      You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you.

      Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. —

      Good signior, you shall more command with years

      Than with your weapons.

      O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter?

      Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her;

      For I'll refer me to all things of sense,

      If she in chains of magic were not bound,

      Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy,

      So opposite to marriage that she shunn'd

      The wealthy curlèd darlings of our nation,

      Would ever have, to incur a general mock,

      Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom

      Of such a thing as thou, – to fear, not to delight.

      Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense

      That thou hast practis'd on her with foul charms;

      Abus'd her delicate youth with drugs or minerals

      That weaken motion: – I'll have't disputed on;

      'Tis probable, and palpable to thinking.

      I therefore apprehend and do attach thee

      For an abuser of the world, a practiser

      Of arts inhibited and out of warrant. —

      Lay hold upon him: if he do resist,

      Subdue him at his peril.

                                            Hold your hands,

      Both you of my inclining and the rest:

      Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it

      Without a prompter. – Where will you that I go

      To answer this your charge?

                                                    To prison; till fit time

      Of law and course of direct session

      Call thee to answer.

                                       What if I do obey?

      How may the duke be therewith satisfied,

      Whose messengers are here about my side,

      Upon some present business of the state,

      To bring me to him?

                                        'Tis true, most worthy signior;

      The duke's in council, and your noble self,

      I am sure, is sent for.

                                          How! the duke in council!

      In this time of the night! – Bring him away:

      Mine's not an idle cause: the duke himself,

      Or any of my brothers of the state,

      Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own;

      For if such actions may have passage free,

      Bond slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.

      There is no composition in these news

      That gives them credit.

                                            Indeed, they are disproportion'd;

      My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.

      And mine a hundred and forty.

                                                        And mine two hundred:

      But though they jump not on a just account, —

      As in these cases, where the aim reports,

      'Tis oft with difference, – yet do they all confirm

      A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.

      Nay, it is possible enough to judgement:

      I do not so secure me in the error,

      But the main article I do approve

      In fearful sense.

      [Within.]  What, ho! what, ho! what, ho!

      A messenger from the galleys.

                                                       Now, – what's the business?

      The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes;

      So was I bid report here to the state

      By Signior Angelo.

      How say you by this change?

                                                      This cannot be,

      By no assay of reason: 'tis a pageant

      To keep us in false gaze. When we consider

      The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk;

      And let ourselves again but understand

      That, as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,

      So may he with more facile