BRABANTIO.
So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me.
Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business
Hath rais’d 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.
DUKE.
Why, what’s the matter?
BRABANTIO.
My daughter! O, my daughter!
DUKE and SENATORS.
Dead?
BRABANTIO.
Ay, to me.
She is abused, stol’n from me, and corrupted
By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;
For nature so preposterously to err,
Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,
Sans witchcraft could not.
DUKE.
Whoe’er he be, that in this foul proceeding,
Hath thus beguil’d your daughter of herself,
And you of her, the bloody book of law
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter,
After your own sense, yea, though our proper son
Stood in your action.
BRABANTIO.
Humbly I thank your grace.
Here is the man, this Moor, whom now it seems
Your special mandate for the state affairs
Hath hither brought.
ALL.
We are very sorry for ’t.
DUKE.
[To Othello.] What, in your own part, can you say to this?
BRABANTIO.
Nothing, but this is so.