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Under these hard conditions as this time

Is like to lay upon us.

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OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO THE SENATORS, FROM "OTHELLO"

Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her: head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,

The

very

And little bless'd 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, unvarnished 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.

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 travel's 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 suffered. 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 wished she had not heard it, yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man: she

thanked 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:

M

She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This is the only witchcraft I have used:
Here comes the lady; let her witness it.

ULYSSES

Shakespeare.

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match't with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not

me.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known, cities of men

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And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all,
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

Gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades

Forever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;

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