OTHELLO.
My soul is the cause--
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!--
It is the cause.--I will not shed her blood;
I will not scar her white skin,
her skin of alabaster.
[Takes off his sword.]
She must die or she'll cheat more men.
Put out the light of her life:
If i stop her from controlling me i can be happy again ,
I will then be my old self
Should I repent me:--but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It must needs wither:--let me smell you wile your still alive.--
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