Othello’s Remorse

William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

From “Othello,” Act V. Sc. 2.

BEHOLD, I have a weapon;

A better never did itself sustain

Upon a soldier’s thigh: I have seen the day,

That, with this little arm and this good sword,

I have made my way through more impediments

Than twenty times your stop:—but, O vain boast!

Who can control his fate? ’t is not so now.—

Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed;

Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt,

And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.

Do you go back dismayed? ’t is a lost fear;

Man but a rush against Othello’s breast,

And he retires:—where should Othello go?—

Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starred wench!

Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,

This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,

And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?

Even like thy chastity—O, cursèd slave!—

Whip me, ye devils,

From the possession of this heavenly sight!

Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!

Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!—

O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead? O! O!