Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

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      Nay, it is possible enough to judgement:

      I do not so secure me in the error,

      But the main article I do approve

      In fearful sense.

      [Within.]  What, ho! what, ho! what, ho!

      A messenger from the galleys.

                                                       Now, – what's the business?

      The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes;

      So was I bid report here to the state

      By Signior Angelo.

      How say you by this change?

                                                      This cannot be,

      By no assay of reason: 'tis a pageant

      To keep us in false gaze. When we consider

      The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk;

      And let ourselves again but understand

      That, as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,

      So may he with more facile question bear it,

      For that it stands not in such warlike brace,

      But altogether lacks the abilities

      That Rhodes is dress'd in. If we make thought of this,

      We must not think the Turk is so unskilful

      To leave that latest which concerns him first;

      Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain,

      To wake and wage a danger profitless.

      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.

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