which neither forward nor retard it. Of the feigned madness of Hamlet there appears no adequate cause, for he does nothing which he might not have done with the reputation of sanity. He plays the madman most, when he treats Ophelia with so much rudeness, which seems to be useless and wanton cruelty. Hamlet is, through the whole piece, rather an instrument than an agent. After he has, by the stratagem of the play, convicted the king, he makes no attempt to punish him; and his death is at last effected by an incident which Hamlet had no part in producing. The catastrophe is not very happily produced; the exchange of weapons is rather an expedient of necessity, than a stroke of art. A scheme might easily be formed, to kill Hamlet with the dagger, and Laertes with the bowl. The poet is accused of having shown little regard to poetical justice, and may be charged with equal neglect of poetical probability. The apparition left the regions of the dead to little purpose: the revenge which he demands is not obtained, but by the death of him that was required to take it; and the gratification, which would arise from the destruction of an usurper and a murderer, is abated by the untimely death of Ophelia, the young, the beautiful, the harmless, and the pious. JOHNSON. C. Whittingham, Printer, Chiswick. DRAMATIS PERSONEÆ. Duke of Venice. Two other Senators. Gratiano, Brother to Brabantio. Cassio, his Lieutenant. Iago, his Ancient. Roderigo, a Venetian Gentleman. Montano, Othello's Predecessor in the Government of Cyprus. Clown, Servant to Othello. Desdemona, Daughter to Brabantio, and Wife to Othello. Emilia, Wife to Iago. Bianca, a Courtezan, Mistress to Cassio. Officers, Gentlemen, Messengers, Musicians, Sailors, Attendants, &c. SCENE, for the first Act, in Venice; during the rest of the Play, at a Seaport in Cyprus. Rod. TUSH, never tell me, I take it much unkindly, That thou, lago,-who hast had my purse, As if the strings were thine,-shouldst know of this. Abhor me. [city, Rod. Thou told'st me, thou didst hold him in thy hate. My mediators; for certes, says he, Forsooth, a great arithmetician, More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric, As masterly as he mere prattle, without practice, And I, (God bless the mark!) his moorship's ancient. man. Iago. But there's no remedy, 'tis the curse of service; Preferment goes by letter, and affection, Not by the old gradation, where each second Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself, To love the Moor. Rod. I would not follow him then. lago. O, sir, content you; I follow him to serve my turn upon him: Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul; For, sir, |