Lod. What? Strike his wife?

Iago. 'Faith that was not so well: yet would I knew That stroke would proue the worst

Lod. Is it his vse?

Or did the Letters, worke vpon his blood, And new create his fault?

Iago. Alas, alas: It is not honestie in me to speake What I haue seene, and knowne. You shall obserue him, And his owne courses will denote him so, That I may saue my speech: do but go after And marke how he continues

Lod. I am sorry that I am deceiu'd in him.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Oth.e.l.lo and aemilia.

Othe. You haue seene nothing then?

Aemil. Nor euer heard: nor euer did suspect

Othe. Yes, you haue seene Ca.s.sio, and she together

Aemi. But then I saw no harme: and then I heard, Each syllable that breath made vp betweene them

Othe. What? Did they neuer whisper?

Aemil. Neuer my Lord

Othe. Nor send you out o'th' way?

Aemil. Neuer

Othe. To fetch her Fan, her Gloues, her Mask, nor nothing?

Aemil. Neuer my Lord

Othe. That's strange.

Aemil. I durst (my Lord) to wager, she is honest: Lay downe my Soule at stake: If you thinke other, Remoue your thought. It doth abuse your bosome: If any wretch haue put this in your head, Let Heauen requit it with the Serpents curse, For if she be not honest, chaste, and true, There's no man happy. The purest of their Wiues Is foule as Slander

Othe. Bid her come hither: go.

Exit aemilia.

She saies enough: yet she's a simple Baud That cannot say as much. This is a subtile Wh.o.r.e: A Closset Locke and Key of Villanous Secrets, And yet she'le kneele, and pray: I haue seene her do't.

Enter Desdemona, and aemilia.

Des. My Lord, what is your will?

Othe. Pray you Chucke come hither

Des. What is your pleasure?

Oth. Let me see your eyes: looke in my face

Des. What horrible Fancie's this?

Othe. Some of your Function Mistris: Leaue Procreants alone, and shut the doore: Cough, or cry hem; if any body come: Your Mystery, your Mystery: May dispatch.

Exit aemi.

Des. Vpon my knee, what doth your speech import?

I vnderstand a Fury in your words

Othe. Why? What art thou?

Des. Your wife my Lord: your true and loyall wife

Oth.e.l.lo. Come sweare it: d.a.m.ne thy selfe, least being like one of Heauen, the diuells themselues should feare to ceaze thee. Therefore be double d.a.m.n'd: sweare thou art honest

Des. Heauen doth truely know it

Othe. Heauen truely knowes, that thou art false as h.e.l.l

Des. To whom my Lord?

With whom? How am I false?

Othe. Ah Desdemon, away, away, away

Des. Alas the heauy day: why do you weepe?

Am I the motiue of these teares my Lord?

If happely you my Father do suspect, An Instrument of this your calling backe, Lay not your blame on me: if you haue lost him, I haue lost him too

Othe. Had it pleas'd Heauen, To try me with Affliction, had they rain'd All kind of Sores, and Shames on my bare-head: Steep'd me in pouertie to the very lippes.

Giuen to Captiuitie, me, and my vtmost hopes, I should haue found in some place of my Soule A drop of patience. But alas, to make me The fixed Figure for the time of Scorne, To point his slow, and mouing finger at.

Yet could I beare that too, well, very well: But there where I haue garnerd vp my heart, Where either I must liue, or beare no life, The Fountaine from the which my currant runnes, Or else dries vp: to be discarded thence, Or keepe it as a Cesterne, for foule Toades To knot and gender in. Turne thy complexion there: Patience, thou young and Rose-lip'd Cherubin, I heere looke grim as h.e.l.l

Des. I hope my n.o.ble Lord esteemes me honest

Othe. Oh I, as Sommer Flyes are in the Shambles, That quicken euen with blowing. Oh thou weed: Who art so louely faire, and smell'st so sweete, That the Sense akes at thee, Would thou had'st neuer bin borne

Des. Alas, what ignorant sin haue I committed?

Othe. Was this faire Paper? This most goodly Booke Made to write Wh.o.r.e vpon? What commited, Committed? Oh, thou publicke Commoner, I should make very Forges of my cheekes, That would to Cynders burne vp Modestie, Did I but speake thy deedes. What commited?

Heauen stoppes the Nose at it, and the Moone winks: The baudy winde that kisses all it meetes, Is hush'd within the hollow Myne of Earth And will not hear't. What commited?

Des. By Heauen you do me wrong

Othe. Are not you a Strumpet?

Des. No, as I am a Christian.

If to preserue this vessell for my Lord, From any other foule vnlawfull touch Be not to be a Strumpet, I am none

Othe. What, not a Wh.o.r.e?

Des. No, as I shall be sau'd

Othe. Is't possible?

Des. Oh Heauen forgiue vs

Othe. I cry you mercy then.

I tooke you for that cunning Wh.o.r.e of Venice, That married with Oth.e.l.lo. You Mistris, Enter aemilia.

That haue the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keepes the gate of h.e.l.l. You, you: I you.