Iago:
God forsake that doltish, doltish man! That he believeth each word to drop from mine own lips as though âtwere holy writ, blindeth himself in his conceit... God save us all if that moor hadst remainâd powerful as he once was. Was! âTis ever so sweet to speak of him in the past. My hatred for the man doth outlast his brief, foolâs life. Ay, good riddance I say, good riddance. It gives me somewhat to dwell upon, rather than mine own blood seepeth oâer my clothes â and yet, whilst I am so bruised and beaten, the thought dost creep oâer my mind, that I am glad Othello saw me not in such estate... good riddance, I say! And good riddance to his whore of a wife, loyal or nay! I stand triumphant, as I ever was, whilst they both do rot in the ground, many a pace betwixt them. Never have I known a fate more satisfying. If he were to cast me aside, then let him have naught by his side. Yet the question I can but ask myself still, is why doth mine heart ache so? The moor is dead by none but his own doing. Blind was he to mine own worth, casting me off like so. Say not mine hand was unforced. So why doth I ache so?
Were he alive, would he rue it? The fool, to end his own life... could he not be a man? Othello, thou art a fool if thou hearâst me now! By what reason or wit didst thou wed that woman? Did she know thee better than I? Did she know thee more deeply? Doth her devotion put mine years of loyalty to shame? I-
Ay, see me now! Pacing and railing against the walls of this accursâd cell like a crazâd wretch. Nay, Othello, thou art not here. Good riddance to thee. Thou art dead, I am alive; thus I am the victor.
Yet it doth feel less noble than I had dreamt. There is no crowd to applaud me within these walls. In mine heart there smoulders a fire, yet beneath it lies an emptiness naught can fill. My hunger should have been sated the moment that blade piercâd his belly, yet instead tis growing more keen as each day doth pass. And without him. Yet pass they do.
Nay, good riddance, The days pass as eâer they did, yet the man who wronged me doth not see their passage â that alone is reason for celebration. Were I free this moment, mayhap Iâd travel to the nearest tavern and there proclaim my triumph to all âtil my voice grew hoarse.
Yet, even as I say it, I dread that the instant I entered, the name âOthelloâ would lie presupposâd on my tongue. Oh, heavens, whom do I seek to deceive? There is none but myself here. His name, which stirrâd naught but anger in my heart, used to do the opposite. Speak on, I shall not, for if there aught left to grip save mine hand upon mine wind, it is my dignity. These walls, they crack and whisper â I should know, for I have stood long upon the other side of them. For Othelloâs sake, no less.
The fate he met, âtwas by his own hand wrought. Cassio, his choice? That lecherous, fawning knave? Were I in Othelloâs stead, Iâd have cast off this mortal coil the moment such a decision was made. And yet, as he hearkenâd to mine own supposed crimes, ere he did end his life in such selfish haste, I find myself longing that his reddened face and rueful eye had been set alight for another cause. Mayhaps a more selfish one. That red, perchance warmâd by mine lips upon his.
God, save me! Let some gaoler enter this cell and thrash me senseless for thinking thus, and let mine head be dashâd upon the cold stone floor for that I would not repent.
--
translated version for stupid harlots
Iago:
God forsake that stupid, stupid man! Believing every word to come out my mouth like it is the scripture itself, blinding himself with his own ego... god save us all if he was to remain as powerful as he was. Was â itâs ever so satisfying to speak of him in past tense now. My hate  for the man lives longer than he ever did. Good riddance, I say, good riddance. It gives me something to occupy myself with, rather than the way my own blood drips onto my clothes â while Iâm beaten, the thought canât help but enter my mind that Iâm glad Othello never saw me like this... good riddance! And good riddance to his whore of a wife, faithful or not! I remain triumphant as always while they both rot in the ground, metres apart forever. Iâve never heard of a more satisfying fate. If he was to choose to not have me by his side, then he will have no one. The question, however, that I canât help but ask myself, is why do I still ache? That idiot is dead because of no oneâs fault but his own. He failed to recognise my worthiness, pushed me to the side like some sort of wingman, you cannot say my hand was not forced. So why do I ache like so?
If he was alive still, would he regret it? The fool, ending his own life like that... be a man! Othello, you moron, if you by any chance of the heavens can hear me now, you are a fool! Why in any sense of sanity you still held onto would you marry that woman? Did she know you better than I? Did she understand you more deeply than I? Did she stay by your side for god knows how long that put my years of loyalty to shame? I-
Look at me now. Pacing and yelling to the walls of this damned grey cell like some sort of deluded psychotic. No, Othello, you are not here. Good riddance. You are dead and I am alive, and therefore I am the victor.
It feels less admirable than I had imagined it to feel.
There is no applause in this cell for me. There is a fire burning in my heart but just below it, my stomach is empty as itâll ever be. My appetite shouldâve been quenched the second that knife entered his belly but for some reason itâs getting worse as the days pass. Without him, they pass.
No, good riddance. The days pass as they always did and this time a man who has wronged me is not here to see it â that, in my books, is a cause for celebration. Why, if I was freed right now maybe Iâd even go for a trip to the nearest tavern, and brag about my winnings to everyone I can see until my throat is raw.
However, and I truly may hate myself for this, I fear the second I storm in there and open my mouth to speak, the name âOthelloâ would already be presumed to be on my tongue. Oh, who am I to fool. There is no one here but me. Where his name, when spoken to me, now provokes ire and anger, it did so used to do the opposite. Speak on, I will not, for if there is one thing that I wish to hold on to other than my hand to my bleeding wound it is my dignity. These cracking cell walls, they speak. I should know; Iâve been on the other side of them for the majority of my time here. For Othelloâs sake, nonetheless.
The fate he had he brought it on himself. Cassio was his choice? That good for nothing womanizer? If I were Othello Iâd have killed myself the second that god-awful decision was made.
And yet, as he was told of my crimes, before he did end his own life so selfishly, I canât help but wish the red in his face and the regret in his eyes couldâve been for a different reason. The flush of his face, maybe accompanied with my lips on his.
God, spare me! Let someone back into my cell to beat my wounds raw for thinking such a thing, and let my skull be cracked open on the cold, concrete floor for not wanting to take it back.
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I have recently come to the conclusion that Alcibiades is the real Fair youth (joke).
- First of all Shakespeare describes the fair youth as so beautiful no one would possibly believe him, fairer than a summerâs day and all. Alcibiades was widely known as the most beautiful man in Athens, no matter how old he got. He is also well known, which is what immortality means in Shakespeareâs sonnets.
- The fair youth is described as feminine in Sonnet 20. Alcibiades wore dresses and was buried in one. He also had a dream of putting on make up, but Shakespeare said the fair youth is beautiful and feminine without it.
- The fair youth âsteals menâs eyes and womanâs soulsâ (Sonnet 20). Alcibiades also attracted both men and woman, and was bisexual.
- Sonnet 20 also says that the fair youth was made for womanâs pleasure and menâs love. This can easily be applied to Alcibiades because he had a lot of sex with woman, but never with his lover Socrates, because Socrates was asexual.
- Socrates is the Rival poet who tempted Alcibiades away from all his other lovers, including Shakespeare, since Socrates was the only one to praise his inner beauty instead of the outer beauty.
- Alcibiades is a character in Shakespeareâs âTimon of Athensâ and although he is mostly an unsympathetic character in history, he is portrayed as a good and helpful character by Shakespeare.
2.
The moon has not left my side
Since I revealed my heart to you.
It nudges every second star to hold my smile and guide
My skipped heartbeats and baby butterflies to your view.
The words for 'I am yours' in every language
Plant their golden seeds in my bilingual mind
All of the universe's 11:11 wishes form a heart-shaped tangle
Pulling me out of any sadness that my past has aligned.
I wear my ballet flats and twirl towards your hand
At 2 am across oceans; the dolphins enjoy the show.
On golden glittering sands I crash land,
You look up from your book, grin and say, 'yo'.
I finally see what you want of me and to that end I flow,
Punching you playfully in the arm and calling you, 'bro'.
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goodbye my once forbidden love again
to see that i am not as good as thee
i know that now i was naive back then
the oceanâs tides could not make you see me
i will not bother me with thoughts of you
as true as iron on the melded shield
my dreams will cease to be unmastered true
so leave me still as i lay in the field
yet i will not forget just how you are
that was which i began to love at first
the feeling you gave me from out afarÂ
i loved thee then but now my love feels cursed
still wary of your glance and where you stand
my heart wonât find another where you land
The late night stars Glittered against the blackness Of an evening That came nearly close To perfection Where you and I and love Played ourselves out Like the climax Of a Shakespearen comedy Our last laughs Seemingly ushering In the first light of dawn
These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.