Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

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      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 seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.

      To mourn a mischief that is past and gone

      Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

      What cannot be preserved when fortune takes,

      Patience her injury a mockery makes.

      The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief;

      He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

      So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile;

      We lose it not so long as we can smile;

      He bears the sentence well, that nothing bears

      But the free comfort which from thence he hears;

      But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow

      That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow.

      These sentences, to sugar or to gall,

      Being strong on both sides, are equivocal:

      But words are words; I never yet did hear

      That the bruis'd heart was piercèd through the ear. —

      I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state.

      The tyrant custom, most grave senators,

      Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war

      My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnize

      A natural and prompt alacrity

      I find in hardness; and do undertake

      These present wars against the Ottomites.

      Most humbly, therefore, bending to your state,

      I crave fit disposition for my wife;

      Due reference of place and exhibition;

      With such accommodation and besort

      As levels with her breeding.

                                                   If you please,

      Be't at her father's.

                                       I'll not have it so.

      Nor I.

                   Nor I. I would not there reside,

      To put my father in impatient thoughts,

      By being in his eye. Most gracious duke,

      To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear;

      And let me find a charter in your voice

      To assist my simpleness.

      What would you, Desdemona?

      That I did love the Moor to live with him,

      My downright violence and storm of fortunes

      May trumpet to the world: my heart's subdu'd

      Even to the very quality of my lord:

      I saw Othello's visage in his mind;

      And to his honors and his valiant parts

      Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate.

      So that, dear lords, if I be left behind,

      A moth of peace, and he go to the war,

      The rites for which I love him are bereft me,

      And I a heavy interim shall support

      By his dear absence. Let me go with him.

      Let her have your voices.

      Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not

      To please the palate of my appetite;

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