Othello by William Shakespeare, unaltered play / script. (non illustrated)

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The play opens on year-old Alexandra played by yeal-old Estelle Parsons , who has barricaded herself in her Brooklyn home, armed with home-made explosives. The Penguin Shakespeare began appearing in the s, when there was a consensus among scholars that the business of the editor was to reconstruct what Shakespeare originally wrote. If, as was the case with more than a dozen of the plays, there were two strikingly different early printed versions one in "quarto", the Elizabethan equivalent of the modern paperback, and the other in the stout "first folio" of Shakespeare's collected works , then it was assumed that one version must have suffered from "corruption" in the playhouse, the printing-house or somewhere in-between.

In Hamlet, Othello and King Lear, where the variants ran into hundreds of lines, editors would pick and mix between quarto and folio on the basis of their own judgment. The editorial consensus was shattered in the s by the Oxford Complete Works. As anyone who works in theatre, film or television will tell you, drama scripts never stand still. They are constantly reworked in development, rehearsal and production. Actors, directors and audiences all have their say in this process. This was unquestionably the case for Shakespeare, too: he was intimately involved with the production of his plays and would have listened to the views of leading actors such as Richard Burbage.

If something didn't work when a show opened in the public theatre, it could be changed before the all-important command performance at court. The Oxford edition took a radically new approach to the texts because the editors realised that the variants between the early texts were often the result of revision rather than corruption. In the case of King Lear, they presented separate versions of the quarto and folio texts, on the grounds that there were so many differences between them that the "conflated" text of editorial tradition had no Shakespearean warrant.

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The Oxford Complete Works made some eccentric decisions and didn't follow the logic of "the unconflated text" as rigorously as it might have done, but it set the editorial agenda for our time. Both have been successfully performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company: in the current production at the Swan Theatre, in Stratford-upon-Avon, the scene where Thomas More persuades the London crowd not to beat up the equivalent of asylum-seekers has the authentically Shakespearean combination of compassion with respect for law and order.

Penguin, meanwhile, has reissued 20 volumes of individual plays. These have new covers with even more risible designs than the old ones, and new introductory essays by leading Shakespeare scholars.

Shakespeare's OTHELLO - CliffsNotes Video Summary

Astonishingly, though, the texts remain unaltered from the editions of the s and s. Passages in Hamlet and Lear, where quarto and folio offer alternative versions of the same incident, are cobbled together indiscriminately, making nonsense of certain sequences. It is as if the Oxford revolution in Shakespearean editing had never happened. The whole process is very like that of putting a new Rover badge on a rusty old British Leyland motor. Sooner or later a call will be made from the Edexcel division of Pearson to the Penguin division saying that, grateful as teachers and students are for the admirable new introductory material, the examining board cannot in good conscience continue to prescribe such obsolete texts of our national poet.

Color: fashion11 This stage show sing music emote tv play theater script art career award news politics media waiter movie birdy27designs cable series broadway audition business act actress f Ask me about my Play - advert for script writer theater actor director etc. Mad in pursuit and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest to have extreme; A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red, than her lips red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go, My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare.

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Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan; To say they err I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to myself alone. And to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, One on another's neck, do witness bear Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.

In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O!

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Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack. Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, And my next self thou harder hast engrossed: Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken; A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.


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Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail: And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind; He learned but surety-like to write for me, Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.

The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use, And sue a friend came debtor for my sake; So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me: He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

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Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will, And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus; More than enough am I that vexed thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store; So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will One will of mine, to make thy large will more.

Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; Think all but one, and me in that one Will. If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. Will, will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

In things of great receipt with ease we prove Among a number one is reckoned none: Then in the number let me pass untold, Though in thy store's account I one must be; For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold That nothing me, a something sweet to thee: Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lovest me for my name is 'Will. They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is take the worst to be.

If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, Be anchored in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? Why should my heart think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world's common place? Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not, To put fair truth upon so foul a face? In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferred. When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed: But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? Let me excuse thee: ah! Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit, better it were, Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so; As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know; For, if I should despair, I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee; Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.

That I may not be so, nor thou belied, Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote. Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted; Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: O! Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied! Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay; Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent To follow that which flies before her face, Not prizing her poor infant's discontent; So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind; But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind; So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,' If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil, Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; But being both from me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell: Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate', To me that languished for her sake: But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet Was used in giving gentle doom; And taught it thus anew to greet; 'I hate' she altered with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night, who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

Read PDF Othello by William Shakespeare, unaltered play / script. (non illustrated)

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. My love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now Reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly expressed; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no, How can it?

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