Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

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                                                      No, let me not.

      What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?

      O gentle lady, do not put me to't;

      For I am nothing if not critical.

      Come on, assay – There's one gone to the harbor?

      Ay, madam.

      I am not merry; but I do beguile

      The thing I am, by seeming otherwise. —

      Come, how wouldst thou praise me?

      I am about it; but, indeed, my invention

      Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize, —

      It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours,

      And thus she is deliver'd.

      If she be fair and wise, – fairness and wit,

      The one's for use, the other useth it.

      Well prais'd! How if she be black and witty?

      If she be black, and thereto have a wit,

      She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit.

      Worse and worse.

      How if fair and foolish?

      She never yet was foolish that was fair;

      For even her folly help'd her to an heir.

      There's none so foul and foolish thereunto,

      But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.

      She that was ever fair and never proud;

      Had tongue at will and yet was never loud;

      Never lack'd gold and yet went never gay;

      Fled from her wish, and yet said, "Now I may";

      She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,

      Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly;

      She that in wisdom never was so frail

      To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;

      She that could think and ne'er disclose her mind;

      See suitors following and not look behind;

      She was a wight, if ever such wight were; —

      To do what?

      To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.