1 Iago hath direction what to do.
2 Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land.
3 My cause is hearted; thine hath no less reason.
4 A pestilent complete knave, and the woman hath found him already.
5 The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more.
6 The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks That their designment halts.
7 He hath a person and a smooth dispose, To be suspected, fram'd to make women false.
8 Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carrack: If it prove lawful prize, he's made forever.
9 A noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet.
10 Here is the man, this Moor, whom now it seems Your special mandate for the state affairs Hath hither brought.
11 You have been hotly call'd for, When, being not at your lodging to be found, The senate hath sent about three several quests To search you out.
12 Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame: he hath not yet made wanton the night with her; and she is sport for Jove.
13 Most fortunately: he hath achiev'd a maid That paragons description and wild fame, One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, And in the essential vesture of creation Does tire the ingener.
14 The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnize A natural and prompt alacrity I find in hardness, and do undertake This present wars against the Ottomites.
15 Something sure of state, Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practice Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, Hath puddled his clear spirit, and in such cases Men's natures wrangle with inferior things, Though great ones are their object.
16 Whoe'er he be, that in this foul proceeding, Hath thus beguil'd your daughter of herself, And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter letter, After your own sense, yea, though our proper son Stood in your action.
17 Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business Hath rais'd me from my bed, nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
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