OTHELLO.
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,--
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!--
It is the cause.--Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
[Takes off his sword.]
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me:--but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It must needs wither:--I'll smell it on the tree.--
(Translation) Othello.
She is the cause of my pain. Then I can't hurt her. I don't want to ruin her beautiful skin, as smooth as snow.
(takes off his sword)
Then I must kill her, before she goes off to other guys. I must dispose of her. Take her life away. But I will probably regret it but once I take her life away, peace and nature will be restored,I do not know where the evil lies. Their will once again be happiness, once I killed . I can't share my good moments with her no more. She must to die, I smell it on her.
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