Let me not name it to you

For weeks now Othello's soliloquy has been rumbling in my head.


I'm not sure why. I'm doubtful I even understand all the Moor of Venice is talking about. But I put it here in case you have an idea why this timeless piece just won't go away:

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;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.

[Takes off his sword.]

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 naming 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 pluck'd thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needs must wither: I'll smell thee on the tree.

[Kissing her.]

O balmy breath, that doth 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:
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. —