A Sea-port in Cyprus. An open place near the quay.
Nothing at all: it is a highwrought flood; I cannot, ’twixt the heaven and the main, Descry a sail.
Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land; A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements: If it hath ruffian’d so upon the sea, What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?
A segregation of 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.
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.
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.