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    Othello, the Moore of Venice
    Othello, the Moore of Venice
    Othello, the Moore of Venice
    Ebook173 pages1 hour

    Othello, the Moore of Venice

    By William Shakespeare

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    Othello, the Moore of Venice is a tragedy by William Shakespeare, written in 1603. Also known as "The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice".

    Powerful drama from a marriage between the exotic Moor Othello and the Venetian lady Desdemona that begins with elopement and mutual devotion and ends with jealous rage and death. Shakespeare builds many differences into his hero and heroine, including race, age, and cultural background. Yet most readers and audiences believe the couple's strong love would overcome these differences were it not for Iago, who sets out to destroy Othello. Iago's false insinuations about Desdemona's infidelity draw Othello into his schemes, and Desdemona is subjected to Othello's horrifying verbal and physical assaults.

    The story revolves around four central characters: Othello, a Moorish general in the Venetian army; his beloved wife, Desdemona; his loyal lieutenant, Cassio; and his trusted but ultimately unfaithful ensign, Iago. Given its varied and enduring themes of racism, love, jealousy, betrayal, revenge and repentance, Othello is still often performed in professional and community theatre alike, and has been the source for numerous operatic, film, and literary adaptations.

    William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an English poet, playwright, and actor, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet, and the "Bard of Avon". His extant works, including collaborations, consist of approximately 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other verses, some of uncertain authorship. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBertaBooks
    Release dateJun 21, 2017
    ISBN9788826458342
    Othello, the Moore of Venice
    Author

    William Shakespeare

    William Shakespeare was born in April 1564 in the town of Stratford-upon-Avon, on England’s Avon River. When he was eighteen, he married Anne Hathaway. The couple had three children—an older daughter Susanna and twins, Judith and Hamnet. Hamnet, Shakespeare’s only son, died in childhood. The bulk of Shakespeare’s working life was spent in the theater world of London, where he established himself professionally by the early 1590s. He enjoyed success not only as a playwright and poet, but also as an actor and shareholder in an acting company. Although some think that sometime between 1610 and 1613 Shakespeare retired from the theater and returned home to Stratford, where he died in 1616, others believe that he may have continued to work in London until close to his death.

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      Book preview

      Othello, the Moore of Venice - William Shakespeare

      OTHELLO, THE MOORE OF VENICE

      WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

      Copyright © 2017 William Shakespeare

      Amazing Classics

      All rights reserved.

      OTHELLO, THE MOORE OF VENICE

      Characters of the Play

      Othello, the Moor, general of the Venetian forces.

      Desdemona, his wife.

      Iago, ensign to Othello.

      Emilia, his wife, lady-in-waiting to Desdemona.

      Cassio, lieutenant to Othello.

      The Duke Of Venice.

      Brabantio, Venetian Senator, father of Desdemona.

      Gratiano, nobleman of Venice, brother of Brabantio.

      Lodovico, nobleman of Venice, kinsman of Brabantio.

      Roderigo, rejected suitor of Desdemona.

      Bianca, mistress of Cassio.

      Montano, a Cypriot official.

      A Clown in service to Othello.

      Senators, Sailors, Messengers, Officers, Gentlemen, Musicians, and Attendants.

      Scene: Venice and Cyprus.

      Act I

      Scene I. Venice. A street.

      Enter Roderigo and Iago

      Roderigo Tush! never tell me; I take it much unkindly

      That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

      As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.

      Iago ’Sblood, but you will not hear me:

      If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me.

      Roderigo Thou told’st me thou didst hold him in thy hate.

      Iago Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city,

      In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,

      Off-capp’d to him: and, by the faith of man,

      I know my price, I am worth no worse a place:

      But he; as loving his own pride and purposes,

      Evades them, with a bombast circumstance

      Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war;

      And, in conclusion,

      Nonsuits my mediators; for, ‘Certes,’ says he,

      ‘I have already chose my officer.’

      And what was he?

      Forsooth, a great arithmetician,

      One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,

      A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wife;

      That never set a squadron in the field,

      Nor the division of a battle knows

      More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,

      Wherein the toged consuls can propose

      As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practise,

      Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election:

      And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof

      At Rhodes, at Cyprus and on other grounds

      Christian and heathen, must be be-lee’d and calm’d

      By debitor and creditor: this counter-caster,

      He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,

      And I— God bless the mark! — his Moorship’s ancient.

      Roderigo By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

      Iago Why, there’s no remedy; ’tis the curse of service,

      Preferment goes by letter and affection,

      And not by old gradation, where each second

      Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself,

      Whether I in any just term am affined

      To love the Moor.

      Roderigo I would not follow him then.

      Iago O, sir, content you;

      I follow him to serve my turn upon him:

      We cannot all be masters, nor all masters

      Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark

      Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,

      That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,

      Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass,

      For nought but provender, and when he’s old, cashier’d:

      Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are

      Who, trimm’d in forms and visages of duty,

      Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,

      And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,

      Do well thrive by them and when they have lined their coats

      Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;

      And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,

      It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

      Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:

      In following him, I follow but myself;

      Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,

      But seeming so, for my peculiar end:

      For when my outward action doth demonstrate

      The native act and figure of my heart

      In compliment extern, ’tis not long after

      But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve

      For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

      Roderigo What a full fortune does the thicklips owe

      If he can carry’t thus!

      Iago Call up her father,

      Rouse him: make after him, poison his delight,

      Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen,

      And, though he in a fertile climate dwell,

      Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,

      Yet throw such changes of vexation on’t,

      As it may lose some colour.

      Roderigo Here is her father’s house; I’ll call aloud.

      Iago Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell

      As when, by night and negligence, the fire

      Is spied in populous cities.

      Roderigo What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

      Iago Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves!

      Look to your house, your daughter and your bags!

      Thieves! thieves!

      Brabantio appears above, at a window

      Brabantio What is the reason of this terrible summons?

      What is the matter there?

      Roderigo Signior, is all your family within?

      Iago Are your doors lock’d?

      Brabantio Why, wherefore ask you this?

      Iago ’Zounds, sir, you’re robb’d; for shame, put on your gown;

      Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;

      Even now, now, very now, an old black ram

      Is topping your white ewe. Arise, arise;

      Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,

      Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you:

      Arise, I say.

      Brabantio What, have you lost your wits?

      Roderigo Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

      Brabantio Not I what are you?

      Roderigo My name is Roderigo.

      Brabantio The worser welcome:

      I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors:

      In honest plainness thou hast heard me say

      My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness,

      Being full of supper and distempering draughts,

      Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come

      To start my quiet.

      Roderigo Sir, sir, sir —

      Brabantio But thou must needs be sure

      My spirit and my place have in them power

      To make this bitter to thee.

      Roderigo Patience, good sir.

      Brabantio What tell’st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;

      My house is not a grange.

      Roderigo Most grave Brabantio,

      In simple and pure soul I come to you.

      Iago ’Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service and you think we are ruffians, you’ll have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse; you’ll have your nephews neigh to you; you’ll have coursers for cousins and gennets for germans.

      Brabantio What profane wretch art thou?

      Iago I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

      Brabantio Thou art a villain.

      Iago You are — a senator.

      Brabantio This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo.

      Roderigo Sir, I will answer any thing. But, I beseech you,

      If’t be your pleasure and most wise consent,

      As partly I find it is, that your fair daughter,

      At this odd-even and dull watch o’ the night,

      Transported, with no worse nor better guard

      But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,

      To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor —

      If this be known to you and your allowance,

      We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs;

      But if you know not this, my manners tell me

      We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe

      That, from the sense of all civility,

      I thus would play and trifle with your reverence:

      Your daughter, if you have not given her leave,

      I say again, hath made a gross revolt;

      Tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes

      In an extravagant and wheeling stranger

      Of here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself:

      If she be in her chamber or your house,

      Let loose on me the justice of the state

      For thus deluding you.

      Brabantio Strike on the tinder, ho!

      Give me a taper! call up all my people!

      This accident is not unlike my dream:

      Belief of it oppresses me already.

      Light, I say! light!

      Exit above

      Iago Farewell; for I must leave you:

      It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place,

      To be produced — as, if I stay, I shall —

      Against the Moor: for, I do know, the state,

      However this may gall him with some cheque,

      Cannot with safety cast him, for he’s embark’d

      With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,

      Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls,

      Another of his fathom they have none,

      To lead their business: in which regard,

      Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains.

      Yet, for necessity of

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