the Turkish fleet: For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds; The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane, seems to cast water on the burning bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole: I never did like molestation view On the enchafed flood. If that the Turkish fleet Be not enshelter'd and embay'd, they are drown'd: It is impossible they bear it out. News, lads! our wars are done. The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks, That their designment halts: a noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet. How! is this true? The ship is here put in, A Veronesa; Michael Cassio, Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, Is come on shore: the Moor himself at sea, And is in full commission here for Cyprus. I am glad on't; 'tis a worthy governor. But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly, And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted With foul and violent tempest. Pray heavens he be; For I have served him, and the man commands Like a full soldier. Let's to the seaside, ho! As well to see the vessel that's come in As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, Even till we make the main and the aerial blue An indistinct regard. Come, let's do so: For every minute is expectancy Of more arrivance. Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle, That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens Give him defence against the elements, For I have lost us him on a dangerous sea. Is he well shipp'd? His bark is stoutly timber'd, his pilot Of very expert and approved allowance; Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure. What noise? The town is empty; on the brow o' the sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry 'A sail!' My hopes do shape him for the governor. They do discharge their shot of courtesy: Our friends at least. I pray you, sir, go forth, And give us truth who 'tis that is arrived. I shall. But, good lieutenant, is your general wived? Most fortunately: he hath achieved 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. How now! who has put in? 'Tis one Iago, ancient to the general. Has had most favourable and happy