  Othello’s Story of his Life. H HER father loved me; oft invited me; Still questioned me the story of my life From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I had past. I ran it through, e’en 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, in the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And with it all my travel’s history.All these to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Whichever as she could with haste despatch, She’d 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 distinctly. _ 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. On this hint I spake; She loved me for the dangers I had passed; And I loved her that she did pity them: This is the only witchcraft which I’ve used. _ |
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