Oth.

How shall I murther him, Iago?

Iago.

Did you perceive, how he laugh'd at his vice?

Oth.

Oh, Iago!—

Iago.

And did you see the handkerchief?

Oth.

Was that mine?

Iago.

Yours, by this hand: and to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife—She gave it him, and he hath given it his whore.

Oth.
I would have him nine years a killing—
A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman!

Iago.

Nay, you must forget That.

Oth.

Ay, let her rot and perish, and be damn'd to night; for she shall not live. No, my heart is turn'd to stone: I strike it, and it hurts my hand—Oh, the world hath not a sweeter creature. She might lie by an Emperor's side and command him tasks.

Iago.

Nay, that's not your way.

Oth.

Hang her, I do but say what she is—so delicate with her needle.—An admirable musician.—Oh, she will sing the savageness out of a bear: of so high and plenteous wit and invention!

Iago.

She's the worse for all this.

Oth.
Oh, a thousand, a thousand times:
And then of so gentle condition!—

Iago.
Ay, too gentle.

Oth.
Nay, that's certain.

But yet the pity of it, Iago—Oh, Iago, the pity of it, Iago—

Iago.

If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend; for if it touch not you, it comes near no body.

Oth.

I will chop her into messes: cuckold me!

Iago.

Oh, 'tis foul in her.

Oth.

With mine officer!

Iago.

That's fouler.

Oth.

Get me some poison, Iago, this night; I'll not expostulate with her, lest her body and her beauty unprovide my mind again; this night, Iago.

Iago.
Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed,
Even in the bed she hath contaminated.

Oth.
Good, good:
The justice of it pleases; very good.

Iago.
And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker:
You shall hear more by midnight. [A Trumpet within.

Oth.
Excellent good:—What Trumpet is that same?

Iago.
Something from Venice, sure. 'Tis Lodovico
Come from the Duke: and, see, your wife is with him.

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