This is supposed to be a diary entry written by Iago in prison after the play Othello has ended.
It is short, but I am proud of it.
It is written in Shakespearian-style iambic pentameter.
Do I regret that which I have done? Trifles.
The Moor has been brought back low 'neath the earth
Carried by madness of the supple mind,
That has given me satisfaction 'bound.
But pity Desdemona. That damned fool
Stole her breath in his ire. Curse the Moor's grave!
Regret I that the fair flower doth fold.
That and but one point, the foolishness
That lent me to trust one whit my shrewish wife.
Tis her that wrought my fall, she 'longs to the
Seventh circle of Dante's, betrayer!
Now I lay to waste in this pit of curs.
Mind supping not but the dregs of granite,
Maddening to behold my circumstance.
Icy rocks 'neath foot provide harsh bedding
Unforgiving set beholden to me.
The must so stale it catches my tongue and
Gags sweet breath from me 'till all that's left
Becomes the rotten stench of the privy.
A loathsome lot this is! A vagabond
Twood turn tail ere he to spend a piece here.
The cries of the mad shiver with me in
Nightly frozen repose, a sharp mel'dy
To the chorusing frights of this solemn
Existence.
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