Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

      But, Othello, speak:

      Did you by indirect and forcèd courses

      Subdue and poison this young maid's affections?

      Or came it by request, and such fair question

      As soul to soul affordeth?

                                                  I do beseech you,

      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.

                                           Fetch Desdemona hither.

      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.

                                   Say it, Othello.

      Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;

      Still question'd me the story of my life,

      From year to year, – the battles, sieges, fortunes,

      That I have pass'd.

      I ran it through, even from my boyish days

      To the very moment that he bade me tell it:

      Wherein I spake 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 travels' 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. This to hear

      Would Desdemona seriously incline:

      But still the house affairs would draw her thence;

      Which ever as she could with haste despatch,

      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 suffer'd. 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 wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd

      That heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me;

      And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,

      I should but teach him how to tell my story,

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

      She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;

      And I lov'd her that she did pity them.

      This only is the witchcraft I have us'd: —

      Here comes the lady; let her witness it.

      I think this tale would win my daughter too. —

      Good Brabantio,

      Take up this mangled matter at the best.

      Men do their broken weapons rather use

      Than their bare hands.

                                           I pray you, hear her speak:

      If she confess that she was half the wooer,

      Destruction on my head, if my bad blame

      Light on the man! – Come hither, gentle mistress:

      Do you perceive in all this noble company

      Where most you owe obedience?

                                                             My noble father,

      I do perceive here a divided duty:

      To you I am bound for life and education;

      My life and education both do learn me

      How to respect you; you are the lord of duty, —

      I am hitherto your daughter: but here's my husband;

      And so much duty as my mother show'd

      To you, preferring you before her father,

      So much I challenge that I may profess

      Due to the Moor, my lord.

                                                 God be with you! – I have done. —

      Please it your grace, on to the state affairs:

      I had rather to adopt a child than get it. —

      Come hither, Moor:

      I here do give thee that with all my heart

      Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart

      I would keep from thee. – For your sake, jewel,

      I am glad at soul I have no other child;

      For thy escape would teach me tyranny,

      To hang clogs on them. – I have done, my lord.

      Let me speak like yourself; and lay a sentence

      Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers

      Into your favour.

      When remedies are past, the griefs are ended

      By