Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

      Nay, in all confidence, he's not for Rhodes.

      Here is more news.

      The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,

      Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes,

      Have there injointed them with an after fleet.

      Ay, so I thought. – How many, as you guess?

      Of thirty sail: and now they do re-stem

      Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance

      Their purposes toward Cyprus. – Signior Montano,

      Your trusty and most valiant servitor,

      With his free duty recommends you thus,

      And prays you to believe him.

      'Tis certain, then, for Cyprus. —

      Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?

      He's now in Florence.

      Write from us to him; post-post-haste despatch.

      Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

      Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you

      Against the general enemy Ottoman. —

      [To Brabantio.]  I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior;

      We lack'd your counsel and your help to-night.

      So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me;

      Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business

      Hath rais'd me from my bed; nor doth the general care

      Take hold on me; for my particular grief

      Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature

      That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,

      And it is still itself.

                                      Why, what's the matter?

      My daughter! O, my daughter!

                                                       Dead?

                                                                    Ay, to me;

      She is abused, stol'n from me, and corrupted

      By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;

      For nature so preposterously to err,

      Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,

      Sans witchcraft could not.

      Whoe'er he be that, in this foul proceeding,

      Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself,

      And you of her, the bloody book of law

      You shall yourself read in the bitter letter

      After your own sense; yea, though our proper son

      Stood in your action.

                                         Humbly I thank your grace.

      Here is the man, this Moor; whom now, it seems,

      Your special mandate for the state affairs

      Hath hither brought.

                                       We are very sorry for't.

      [To Othello.]  What, in your own part, can you say to this?

      Nothing, but this is so.

      Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

      My very noble and approv'd 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 bless'd with the soft phrase of peace;

      For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,

      Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd

      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 unvarnish'd 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.

                                       A maiden never bold:

      Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion

      Blush'd at herself; and she, – in spite of nature,

      Of years, of country, credit, everything, —

      To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on!

      It is judgement maim'd and most imperfect

      That will confess perfection so could err

      Against all rules of nature; and must be driven

      To find out practices of cunning hell,

      Why this should be. I therefore vouch again,

      That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,

      Or with some dram conjur'd to this effect,

      He wrought upon her.