Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. 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 What conjuration, and what mighty magic, Her father loved me; oft invited me; From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, 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 But still the house affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, And often did beguile her of her tears, '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, 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 For always roaming with a hungry heart And manners, climates, councils, governments, Gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 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 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; |