_Othello._ Lo! I have a weapon: A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier’s thigh. I’ve seen the day, That with this little arm, and this good sword, I’ve made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast! Who can controul his fate? ’tis not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d; Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt, The very sea mark of my outmost sail. Do you go back dismay’d? ’tis a lost fear. Man but a rush against Othello’s breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now---- how dost thou look now? Oh ill starr’d wench! Pale as thy smoke! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heav’n, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl, Ev’n like thy chastity. O cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heav’nly sight; Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur, Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire---- Oh, Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! dead! oh, oh! _Othello, act 5. sc. 9._ The sentiments here display’d flow so naturally from the passions represented, and are such genuine expressions of these passions, that it is not possible to conceive any imitation more perfect. * * * * * With regard to the French author, truth obliges me to acknowledge, that he describes in the style of a spectator, instead of expressing passion like one who feels it; and also that he is thereby betray’d into the other faults above mentioned, a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory style[50]. It is scarce necessary to produce particular instances; for he never varies from this tone. I shall however take two passages at a venture, in order to be confronted with those transcribed above. In the tragedy of _Cinna_, Æmilia, after the conspiracy was discovered, having nothing in view but racks and death to herself and her lover, receives a pardon from Augustus, attended with the brightest circumstances of magnanimity and tenderness. This is a happy situation for representing the passions of surprise and gratitude in their different stages. These passions, raised at once to the utmost pitch, are at first too big for utterance; and Æmilia’s feelings must, for some moments, have been expressed by violent gestures only. So soon as there is a vent for words, the first expressions are naturally broken and interrupted. At last we ought to expect a tide of intermingled sentiments, occasioned by the fluctuation of the mind betwixt the two passions. Æmilia is made to behave in a very different manner. With extreme coolness she describes her own situation, as if she were merely a spectator; or rather the poet takes the task off her hands.