Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

                                            If that the Turkish fleet

      Be not enshelter'd and embay'd, they are drown'd;

      It is impossible to bear it out.

      News, lads! our wars are done.

      The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks

      That their designment halts; a noble ship of Venice

      Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance

      On most part of their fleet.

      How! is this true?

                                  The ship is here put in,

      A Veronessa; Michael Cassio,

      Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello,

      Is come on shore: the Moor himself's at sea,

      And is in full commission here for Cyprus.

      I am glad on't; 'tis a worthy governor.

      But this same Cassio, – though he speak of comfort

      Touching the Turkish loss, – yet he looks sadly,

      And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted

      With foul and violent tempest.

                                                       Pray heavens he be;

      For I have serv'd him, and the man commands

      Like a full soldier. Let's to the sea-side, ho!

      As well to see the vessel that's come in

      As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello,

      Even till we make the main and the aerial blue

      An indistinct regard.

                                       Come, let's do so;

      For every minute is expectancy

      Of more arrivance.

      Thanks you, the valiant of this warlike isle,

      That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens

      Give him defence against the elements,

      For I have lost him on a dangerous sea!

      Is he well shipp'd?

      His bark is stoutly timber'd, and his pilot

      Of very expert and approv'd allowance;

      Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,

      Stand in bold cure.

      [Within.]                 A sail, a sail, a sail!

      What noise?

      The town is empty; on the brow o' the sea

      Stand ranks of people, and they cry, "A sail!"

      My hopes do shape him for the governor.

      They do discharge their shot of courtesy:

      Our friends at least.

                                       I pray you, sir, go forth,

      And give us truth who 'tis that is arriv'd.

      I shall.

      But, good lieutenant, is your general wiv'd?

      Most fortunately: he hath achiev'd a maid

      That paragons description and wild fame,

      One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,

      And in the essential vesture of creation

      Does tire the ingener. —

      How now! who has put in?

      'Tis one Iago, ancient to the general.

      He has had most favourable and happy speed:

      Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,

      The gutter'd rocks, and congregated sands, —

      Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel, —

      As having sense of beauty, do omit

      Their mortal natures, letting go safely by

      The divine Desdemona.

                                            What is she?

      She that I spake of, our great captain's captain,

      Left in the conduct of the bold Iago;

      Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts

      A se'nnight's speed. – Great Jove, Othello guard,

      And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,

      That he may bless this bay with his tall ship,

      Make love's quick pants in Desdemona's arms,

      Give renew'd fire to our extincted spirits,

      And bring all Cyprus comfort!

                                                       O, behold,

      The riches of the ship is come on shore!

      Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. —

      Hall to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven,

      Before, behind thee, and on every hand,

      Enwheel thee round!

                                        I thank you, valiant Cassio.

      What