Des.
My Lord, what is your will?

Oth.
Pray you, Chuck, come hither.

Des.
What is your pleasure?

Oth.
Let me see your eyes. Look in my face.

Des.
What horrible fancy's this?

Oth. [To Æmilia.]
Some of your function, mistress;
Leave procreants alone, and shut the door,
Cough, or cry, hem, if any body come.
Your mystery, your mystery.—Nay, dispatch. [Exit Æmilia.

Des.
Upon my knee, what doth your speech import?
I understand a fury in your words,
^{5 note}But not your words.

Oth.
Why? what art thou?

Des.
Your wife, my Lord; your true and loyal wife.

Oth.
Come, swear it; damn thyself; lest, being like one
Of heaven, the devils themselves should fear to seize thee.
Therefore be double-damn'd; swear, thou art honest.

Des.
Heaven doth truly know it.

Oth.
Heaven truly knows,
That thou art false as hell.

Des.
To whom, my Lord?
With whom? How am I false?

Oth.
Ah, Desdemona! away, away, away—

Des.
Alas, the heavy day! why do you weep?
Am I the motive of these tears, my Lord?
If, haply, you my father do suspect
An instrument of this your calling back,
Lay not your blame on me; if you have lost him,
Why, I have lost him too.

Oth.
Had it pleas'd heavens
To try me with affliction, had they rain'd
All kind of sores and shames on my bare head,
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips,
Giv'n to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience. But alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the hand of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at—
Yet could I bear that too, well, very well.
But there, where I have ^{6 note}garner'd up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life,
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence;
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads

To knot and gender in—^{7 note}

Des.
I hope, my noble Lord esteems me honest.

Oth.
Oh, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles,
That quicken ev'n with blowing. Oh thou weed!
Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,
That the sense akes at thee—
'Would, thou hadst ne'er been born!

Des.
Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?

Oth.
Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write whore upon? what, what committed?
Committed?—oh, thou publick commoner!
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cynders burn up modesty,
Did but I speak thy deeds. What, what committed?
Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks;
The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear 't. What committed?—Impudent Strumpet!

Des.
By heaven, you do me wrong.

Oth.
Are not you a strumpet?

Des.
No, as I am a christian.
If to preserve this Vessel for my Lord
From any other, foul, unlawful, touch,
Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.

Oth.
What, not a whore?

Des.
No, as I shall be saved.

Oth.
Is't possible?

Des.
Oh, heaven forgive us!

Oth.
I cry you mercy, then.
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice,
That married with Othello—

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