That's strange.

Emil. I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other, Remove your thought: it doth abuse your bosom. If any wretch hath put this in your head, Let heaven requite it with the serpent's curse! For if she be not honest, chaste, and true, There's no man happy; the purest of their wives Is foul as slander.

Oth. Bid her come hither: go. [Exit EMILIA.
She says enough: yet she's a simple bawd
That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore,
A closet-lock-and-key of villanous secrets:
And yet she'll kneel and pray: I have seen her do't.

Re-enter EMILIA, with DESDEMONA.
Des. My lord, what is your will ?
Oth. Pray, 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. Some of your function, mistress: [TO EMILIA. Leave procreants alone, and shut the door : Cough or cry "hem," if anybody come. Your mystery, your mystery:-nay, despatch. [Exit EMILIA.

To try me with affliction; had he rained
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head;
Steeped me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience: but, alas! to make me
A fixéd figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at,-
O! O!

Yet could I bear that too: well, very well:
But there where I have garnered 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!-turn thy complexion there,

Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubin : Ay, there, look grim as hell!

Des. I hope my noble lord esteems me honest. Oth. O, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet, That the sense aches 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 committed? Committed!-0 thou public commoner,

I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds!—What committed!

Iago.

What's the matter, lady?

Emil. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her, Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her, As true hearts cannot bear.

Des. Am I that name, Iago? Iago. What name, fair lady? Des. Such as she says my lord did I was. say Emil. He called her whore :-a beggar, in his drink

Could not have laid such terms upon his callet. Iago. Why did he so?

Des. I do not know: I am sure I am none such. Iago. Do not weep, do not weep. Alas, the day! Emil. Has she forsook so many noble matches, Her father, and her country, and her friends, To be called whore? Would it not make one weep? Des. It is my wretched fortune.

Des.

Nay, heaven doth know.

Emil. I will be hanged, if some eternal villain, Some busy and insinuating rogue,

Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office, Have not devised this slander: I'll be hanged else. Iago. Fie, there is no such man: it is impossible. Des. If any such there be, heaven pardon him! Emil. A halter pardon him; and hell gnaw his bones!

Why should he call her whore? who keeps her company?

What place; what time; what form; what like

I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel :-
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought, or actual deed;
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did,

And ever will, though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement,-love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love. I cannot say, whore;
It does abhor me, now I speak the word:
To do the act that might the addition earn,
Not the world's mass of vanity could make me.
Iago. I pray you, be content; 't is but his humour:
The business of the state does him offence,
And he does chide with you.

Rod. I do not find that thou deal'st justly with me.

Iago. What in the contrary?

Rod. Every day thou doff'st me with some device, Iago; and rather (as it seems to me now) keep'st me from all conveniency, than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will, indeed, no longer endure it: nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered.

Iago. Will you hear me, Roderigo?

Rod. 'Faith, I have heard too much; for your words and performances are in no kin together. Iago. You charge me most unjustly.

Rod. With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you have had from me, to deliver to Desdemona, would half have corrupted a votarist. You have told me she has received them, and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden respect and acquittance: but I find none.

Iago. Well go to: very well.

Rod. Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor 't is not very well. By this hand, I say it is

very scurvy; and begin to find myself fobbed in it.

Iago. Very well.

Rod. I tell you 't is not very well. I will make myself known to Desdemona: if she will return me my jewels, I will give over my suit, and repent my unlawful solicitation: if not, assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you.

Iago. You have said now.

Rod. Ay, and I have said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing.

Iago. Why, now I see there's mettle in thee; and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo: thou hast taken against me a most just exception; but yet I protest I have dealt most directly in thy affair.

Rod. It hath not appeared.

Iago. I grant, indeed, it hath not appeared; and your suspicion is not without wit and judgment. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that within thee indeed which I have greater reason to believe now than ever, I mean purpose, courage, and valour, this night shew it: if thou the next night following enjoy'st not Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery, and devise engines for my life.

Rod. Well, what is it? is it within reason and compass?

Iago. Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice, to depute Cassio in Othello's place. Rod. Is that true? Why, then Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice.

Iago. O, no: he goes into Mauritania, and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be lingered here by some accident: wherein none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio.

Rod. How do you mean removing of him? Iago. Why, by making him incapable of Othello's place: knocking out his brains.

Rod. And that you would have me do? Iago. Ay; if you dare do yourself a profit and a right. He sups to-night with a harlot, and thither will I go to him :-he knows not yet of his honourable fortune. If you will watch his going thence (which I shall fashion to fall out between twelve and one), you may take him at your pleasure: I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me: I will shew you such a necessity in his death, that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste: about it.

Rod. I will hear further reason for this.
Iago. And you shall, be satisfied. [Exeunt.

Des. My mother had a maid called Barbara:
She was in love; and he she loved proved mad,
And did forsake her. She had a song of "willow:"
An old thing 't was, but it expressed her fortune,
And she died singing it. That song, to-night,
Will not go from my mind: I have much to do
But to go hang my head all at one side,
And sing it like poor Barbara. Pr'y thee despatch.
Emil. Shall I go fetch your night-gown?
Des. No, unpin me here.—

This Lodovico is a proper man.
Emil. A very handsome man.
Des. And he speaks well.

Emil. I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.

DESDEMONA sings.

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;

Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,

Sing willow, willow, willow:

The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans; Sing willow, &c.

Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones. Lay by these.

Sing willow, willow, willow.

Pr'y thee, hie thee: he'll come anon.—

Sing all a green willow must be my garland.

Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve,-
Nay, that's not next.-Hark! who is 't that knocks?
Emil. It is the wind.

Emil. By my troth, I think I should; and undo 't when I had done. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring; nor for measures of lawn; nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty exhibition: but for the whole world,why, who would not make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for 't.

Des. Beshrew me if I would do such a wrong for the whole world.

Emil. Why, the wrong is but a wrong i' the world: and, having the world for your labour, 't is a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it right.

Des. I do not think there is any such woman. Emil. Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage As would store the world they played for. But I do think it is their husbands' faults If wives do fall. Say that they slack their duties, And pour our treasures into foreign laps; Or else break out in peevish jealousies, Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us, Or scant our former having in despite: Why, we have galls; and though we have some

And have their palates both for sweet and sour,
As husbands have. What is it that they do,
When they change us for others? Is it sport?
I think it is: and doth affection breed it?
I think it doth: is 't frailty that thus errs?
It is so too. And have not we affections;
Desires for sport; and frailty, as men have?
Then let them use us well: else, let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.

Des. Good night, good night. Heaven me such usage send,

Not to pick bad from bad; but by bad, mend. [Exeunt.