Othello Quotes - Page 2 | Just Great DataBase

Though in the trade of war I have slain men,Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscienceTo do no contrived murder: I lack iniquitySometimes to do me service: nine or ten timesI had thought to have yerk'd him here under the ribs.

For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In complement 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.

As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound. There is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving.

if I were the Moor I wouldn't want to be Iago.

I think the sun where he were born drew all such humours from him.

She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used.

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,Is the immediate jewel of their souls.

...speak to me as to thy thinkingAs thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughtsThe worst of words...

Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know't.— No more of that.—I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely, but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but,

To mourn a mischief that is past and goneIs the next way to draw new mischief on.

What cannot be preserved when fortune takes,Patience her injury a mockery makes.

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 wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'dThat heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me,And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,I should but teach him how to tell my story.And that would woo her.

He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n,Let him not know't and he's not robb'd at all.

When devils do the worst sins, they first put on the pretense of goodness and innocence, as I am doing now.

To be poor but content is actually to be quite rich. But you can have endless riches and still be as poor as anyone if you are always afraid of losing your riches.

Do it not with poison. Strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated.

O, gentle lady, do not put me to’t,/ For I am nothing, if not critical.

There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.

You shall markMany a duteous and knee-crooking knaveThat, 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.

And what’s he then that says I play the villain, / When this advice is free I give, and honest, /Probal to thinking (2.3.321-323)

God me such uses send,Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend.

No, my heart is turn'd to stone: I strike it, and it hurts my hand.

We have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect or scion.

O ill-starred wench! Pale as your smock!

Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manur'd with industry, why, the power, and corrigible authority of this, lies in our wills.

Not I; I must be found;My parts, my title, and my perfect soul,Shall manifest me rightly.

O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,

The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief.

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!

The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief.

Emilia:'Tis not a year or two shows us a man. They are all but stomachs, and we all but food; They eat us hungerly, and when they are full, They belch us.

What did thy song bode, lady?

For your sake, jewel,I am glad at soul I have no other child;For thy escape would teach me tyranny,To hang clogs on them.

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

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

Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens,Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough;But riches fineless is as poor as winterTo him that ever fears he shall be poor;–Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defendFrom jealousy!

Hell and night/Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light.

Or to be naked with her friend in bed An hour or more, not meaning any harm?

someone steals my good reputation from me, then he really does make me truly poor, and steals something that doesn't even make him any richer.

My particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.

I will deny thee nothing: Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, To leave me but a little to myself.

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 affin'd To love the Moor.

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough, But riches fineless is as poor as winter To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

(aside) Oh, you are well tuned now,But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music,As honest as I am.

Therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! 'Tis clean out of the way. Seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her.

We cannot all be masters, nor all mastersCannot be truly follow’d.

Sblood, but you will not hear me:— If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me.