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SCENE VIII

Table of Contents

[Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Officers.]

DUKE

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 tonight.

BRABANTIO

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 floodgate and o’erbearing nature

That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,

And it is still itself.

DUKE

Why, what’s the matter?

BRABANTIO

My daughter! O, my daughter!

DUKE and SENATORS

Dead?

BRABANTIO

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.

DUKE

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.

BRABANTIO

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.

DUKE and SENATORS

We are very sorry for’t.

DUKE

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

BRABANTIO

Nothing, but this is so.

OTHELLO

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.

BRABANTIO

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.

DUKE

To vouch this is no proof;

Without more wider and more overt test

Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods

Of modern seeming do prefer against him.

FIRST SENATOR

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?

OTHELLO

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.

DUKE

Fetch Desdemona hither.

OTHELLO

Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place.—

[Exeunt Iago and Attendants.]

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.

DUKE

Say it, Othello.

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.