Lod.
Is this the noble Moor, whom our full Senate
Call all-in-all sufficient? this the Nature,
Which passion could not shake? ^{4 note}

Iago.
He is much chang'd.

Lod.
Are his wits safe? is he not light of brain?

Iago.
He's what he is; I may not breathe my censure;
What he might be, if what he might he is not,
I would to heaven, he were!

Lod.
What, strike his wife!

Iago.
'Faith, that was not so well; yet 'would I knew,
That stroke would prove the worst.

Lod.
Is it his use?
Or did the letters work upon his blood,
And new-create this fault:

Iago.
Alas, alas!
It is not honesty in me to speak
What I have seen and known. You shall observe him,
And his own courses will denote him so,
That I may save my speech. Do but go after,
And mark how he continues.

Lod.
I'm sorry, that I am deceiv'd in him. [Exeunt.

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