Des. My Lord, what is your will? Othe. Pray you Chucke come hither
Des. What is your pleasure? Oth. Let me see your eyes: looke in my face
Des. What horrible Fancie's this? Othe. Some of your Function Mistris: Leaue Procreants alone, and shut the doore: Cough, or cry hem; if any body come: Your Mystery, your Mystery: May dispatch.
Des. Vpon my knee, what doth your speech import? I vnderstand a Fury in your words
Othe. Why? What art thou? Des. Your wife my Lord: your true and loyall wife
Othello. Come sweare it: damne thy selfe, least being like one of Heauen, the diuells themselues should feare to ceaze thee. Therefore be double damn'd: sweare thou art honest
Des. Heauen doth truely know it
Othe. Heauen truely knowes, that thou art false as hell
Des. To whom my Lord? With whom? How am I false? Othe. Ah Desdemon, away, away, away
Des. Alas the heauy day: why do you weepe? Am I the motiue of these teares my Lord? If happely you my Father do suspect, An Instrument of this your calling backe, Lay not your blame on me: if you haue lost him, I haue lost him too
Othe. Had it pleas'd Heauen, To try me with Affliction, had they rain'd All kind of Sores, and Shames on my bare-head: Steep'd me in pouertie to the very lippes. Giuen to Captiuitie, me, and my vtmost hopes, I should haue found in some place of my Soule A drop of patience. But alas, to make me The fixed Figure for the time of Scorne, To point his slow, and mouing finger at. Yet could I beare that too, well, very well: But there where I haue garnerd vp my heart, Where either I must liue, or beare no life, The Fountaine from the which my currant runnes, Or else dries vp: to be discarded thence, Or keepe it as a Cesterne, for foule Toades To knot and gender in. Turne thy complexion there: Patience, thou young and Rose-lip'd Cherubin, I heere looke grim as hell
Des. I hope my Noble Lord esteemes me honest
Othe. Oh I, as Sommer Flyes are in the Shambles, That quicken euen with blowing. Oh thou weed: Who art so louely faire, and smell'st so sweete, That the Sense akes at thee, Would thou had'st neuer bin borne
Des. Alas, what ignorant sin haue I committed? Othe. Was this faire Paper? This most goodly Booke Made to write Whore vpon? What commited, Committed? Oh, thou publicke Commoner, I should make very Forges of my cheekes, That would to Cynders burne vp Modestie, Did I but speake thy deedes. What commited? Heauen stoppes the Nose at it, and the Moone winks: The baudy winde that kisses all it meetes, Is hush'd within the hollow Myne of Earth And will not hear't. What commited? Des. By Heauen you do me wrong
Othe. Are not you a Strumpet? Des. No, as I am a Christian. If to preserue this vessell for my Lord, From any other foule vnlawfull touch Be not to be a Strumpet, I am none
Othe. What, not a Whore? Des. No, as I shall be sau'd
Othe. Is't possible? Des. Oh Heauen forgiue vs
Othe. I cry you mercy then. I tooke you for that cunning Whore of Venice, That married with Othello. You Mistris, Enter aemilia.
That haue the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keepes the gate of hell. You, you: I you. We haue done our course: there's money for your paines: I pray you turne the key, and keepe our counsaile. Enter.
Aemil. Alas, what do's this Gentleman conceiue? How do you Madam? how do you my good Lady? Des. Faith, halfe a sleepe