Oth.
Well, my good lady. Oh hardness to dissemble!
How do you, Desdemona?

Des.
Well, my lord.

Oth.
Give me your hand; this hand is moist, my lady.

Des.
It yet hath felt no age, nor known no sorrow.

Oth.
This argues fruitfulness, and liberal heart:
Hot, hot, and moist—this hand of yours requires
A sequester from liberty; fasting and prayer,
Much castigation, exercise devout,

For here's a young and sweating devil here,
That commonly rebels: 'tis a good hand,
A frank one.

Des.
You may, indeed, say so;
For 'twas that hand that gave away my heart.

Oth.
A liberal hand. The hearts of old, gave hands;
But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.

Des.
I cannot speak of this; come, now your promise.

Oth.
What promise, chuck?

Des.
I've sent to bid Cassio come speak with you.

Oth.
I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me;
Lend me thy handkerchief.

Des.
Here, my lord.

Oth.
That which I gave you.

Des.
I have it not about me.

Oth.
Not?—

Des.
No indeed, my lord.

Oth.
That's a fault. That handkerchief
Did an Ægyptian to my mother give;
She was a charmer, and could almost read
The thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it,
'Twould make her amiable, subdue my father
Intirely to her love; but if she lost it
Or made a gift of it, my father's eye
Should hold her loathed, and his spirits hunt
After new fancies. She, dying, gave it me,
And bid me, when my fate would have me wiv'd,
To give it her. I did so, and take heed on't;
Make it a darling like your precious eye;
To loose't or give't away, were such perdition
As nothing else could match.

Des.
Is't possible?

Oth.
'Tis true; there's magick in the web of it;

A Sybill that had numbred in the world
The sun to course two hundred compasses,
In her prophetick fury sow'd the work:
The worms were hallowed, that did breed the silk,
And it was dy'd in mummey, which the skilful
Conserv'd of maidens hearts.

Des.
Indeed! is't true!

Oth.
Most veritable, therefore look to't well.

Des.
Then would to heav'n, that I had never seen't.

Oth.
Ha? wherefore?

Des.
Why do you speak so startingly, and rash?

Oth.
Is't lost? is't gone? speak, is it out o'th' way?

Des.
Bless us!—

Oth.
Say you?

Des.
It is not lost; but what and if it were?

Oth.
Ha!

Des.
I say it is not lost.

Oth.
Fetch't, let me see't.

Des.
Why so I can, Sir, but I will not now:
This is a trick to put me from my suit,
Pray you let Cassio be receiv'd again.

Oth.
Fetch me the handkerchief—my mind misgives—

Des.
Come, you'll ne'er meet a more sufficient man.

Oth.
The handkerchief—

Des.
A man that all his time
Hath founded his good fortunes on your love;
Shar'd dangers with you.

Oth.
The handkerchief—

Des.
Insooth you are to blame.

Oth.
Away. [Exit Othello.

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