Act I

’Tis certain, then, for Cyprus.

Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?

He’s now in Florence.

Write from us to him; post-post-haste dispatch.

Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you

Against the general enemy Ottoman.

I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior;

We lack’d your counsel and your help tonight.

So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me;

Neither my place nor aught I heard of business

Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care

Take hold on me, for my particular grief

Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature

That it engluts and swallows other sorrows

And it is still itself.

Why, what’s the matter?

My daughter! O, my daughter!