"I will in Cassio's lodgings lose this napkin,
And let him find it."
"This may do something,—
The Moor already changes with the poison:
Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons,
Which at the first, are scarce found to distaste;
But, with a little, act upon the blood,
Burn like the mines of sulphur.—I did say so:—
Enter Othello.
Look! where he comes! Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ow'dst yesterday."
Then follows, without break, all the rest of this dreadful Third Scene. The first dose of the poison—the second, and third, and fourth—are all given on one and the same day. The mineral has gnawed through all the coats of the stomach—and He has sworn to murder Her—all in one day. We have Iago's word for it. Yesterday his sleep was sweet—how happy he was then we can imagine—how miserable he is now we see—"what a difference to him," and in him, between Saturday and Sunday!
"O, blood! Iago, blood!
Now by yond' marble heaven,
In the due reverence of a sacred vow,
I here engage my words.
Iago. Do not rise yet. [Kneels.
Witness, you ever-burning lights above!
You elements, that clip us round about!
Witness, that here Iago doth give up,
The execution of his wit, hands, heart,
To wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command,
And to obey shall be in me remorse,
What bloody work soever."
TALBOYS.
Thou Great original Short-Timeist! Unanswerable art Thou. But let us look at the close of this dreadful Third Act.
Othello. I greet thy love,
Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous,
And will upon the instant put thee to't:
Within these three days let me hear thee say,
That Cassio's not alive.
Iago. My friend is dead; 'tis done at your request:
But let her live.
Othello. Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her!
Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw,
To furnish me with some swift means of death
To the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.
Iago. I am your own for ever.
In three days—at the longest—for Cassio;—but Iago understood, and did it that very night. And swift means of death for the fair devil were in Othello's own hands—ay—he smothered her that night to a dead certainty—a dead certainty at last—though his hands seem to have faltered.