Lod.
Is this the noble Moor, whom our full senate
Call all-in-all sufficient? this the nature
Which passion could not shake? whose solid virtue
The shot of accident nor dart of chance
Could neither graze nor pierce?

Jago.
He is much chang'd.

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

Jago.
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 heav'n he were.

Lod.
What, strike his wife!

Jago.
'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?

Jago.
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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