The Tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

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          And little blest with the soft phrase of peace;

          For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,

          Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used

          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 conjured to this effect,

          He wrought upon her.

        DUKE. To vouch this is no proof,

          Without more certain 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 forced 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 loved 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 dispatch,

          She'ld 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 loved her,

          I should but teach him how to tell my story,

          And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:

          She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,

          And I loved her that she did pity them.

          This only is the witchcraft I have used.

          Here comes the lady; let her witness it.

      Enter Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants.