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.

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. A cry within “A sail, a sail, a sail!”

The town is empty; on the brow o’ the sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry “A sail!”

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.

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.

Has had most favourable and happy speed: Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds, The gutter’d rocks and congregated sands⁠— Traitors ensteep’d to clog the guiltless keel⁠— As having sense of beauty, do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona.

She that I spake of, our great captain’s captain, Left in the conduct of the bold Iago, Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts A sennight’s speed. Great Jove, Othello guard, And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath, That he may bless this bay with his tall ship, Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms, Give renew’d fire to our extincted spirits And bring all Cyprus comfort!