O, O, O!

Othello
O, O, O!
Othello falls on the bed.
Emilia
Nay, lay thee down, and roar!
For thou hast killed the sweetest innocent
That e'er did lift up eye.
Othello, standing
O, she was foul!—
I scarce did know you, uncle. There lies your niece,
Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopped.
I know this act shows horrible and grim.
Gratiano
Poor Desdemon, I am glad thy father's dead.
Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,
This sight would make him do a desperate turn,
Yea, curse his better angel from his side,
And fall to reprobance.