One more, one more

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Othello. - It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars.
It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood,
Not scar that whiter skin oh hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light.
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore
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 plucked thy rose
I cannot give it vital growth again.
It needs must wither. I'll smell thee on tree.
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword ! One more, one more,
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee
And love thee after. One more, and that's the last.
+++He kisses her.

Othello, V, 2

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J'ai frissonné tout au long de l'acte V, il y a longtemps que je n'avais pas lu (en français) une pièce de Shakespeare...
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fleurs nomades du jardin cet été