Oth.
This fellow's of exceeding honesty,
And knows all qualities, ^{6 note}with a learned spirit,
Of human dealings. If I prove her haggard,
^{7 note}Tho' that her jesses were my dear heart-strings,
I'd whistle her off, and let her down the wind
To prey at fortune. Haply, for I'm black,
And have not those soft parts of conversation
That chamberers have; or, for I am declin'd
Into the vale of years,—yet that's not much—
She's gone, I am abus'd, and my relief
Must be to loath her. Oh the curse of marriage!
That we can call these delicate creatures ours,
And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad,
And live upon the vapour of a dungeon,
Than keep a corner in the thing I love,
For others' use. Yet 'tis the plague of Great ones;
Prerogativ'd are they less than the base;
'Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.
Even then, this forked plague is fated to us,
When we do quicken. Desdemona comes! Enter Desdemona and Æmilia.
If she be false, oh, then heav'n mocks itself:
I'll not believe't.

Des.
How now, my dear Othello?
Your dinner, and the generous Islanders,

By you invited, do attend your presence.

Oth.
I am to blame.

Des.
Why do you speak so faintly?
Are you not well?

Oth.
I have a pain upon my forehead here.

Des.
Why, that's with watching, 'twill away again;
Let me but bind it hard, within this hour
It will be well.

Oth.
Your napkin is too little; [She drops her handkerchief.
Let it alone: come, I'll go in with you.

Des.
I am very sorry, that you are not well. [Exeunt.

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