For thy escape would teach me tyranny, To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord. Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence, Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers Into your favour. When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when fortune takes Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile; We lose it not, so long as we can smile. He bears the sentence well that nothing bears But the free comfort which from thence he hears, But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow. These sentences, to sugar, or to gall, Being strong on both sides, are equivocal: But words are words; I never yet did hear That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear. I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state. The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you; and though we have there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on you: you must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition. The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnise A natural and prompt alacrity I find in hardness, and do undertake These present wars against the Ottomites. Most humbly therefore bending to your state, I crave fit disposition for my wife. Due reference of place and exhibition, With such accommodation and besort As levels with her breeding. If you please, Be't at her father's. I'll not have it so. Nor I. Nor I; I would not there reside, To put my father in impatient thoughts By being in his eye. Most gracious duke, To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear; And let me find a charter in your voice, To assist my simpleness. What would You, Desdemona? That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence and storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world: my heart's subdued Even to the very quality of my lord: I saw Othello's visage in his mind, And