what didst not like? And when I told thee he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst 'Indeed!' And didst contract and purse thy brow together, As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain Some horrible conceit: if thou dost love me, Show me thy thought. My lord, you know I love you. I think thou dost; And, for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty, And weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath, Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more: For such things in a false disloyal knave Are tricks of custom, but in a man that's just They are close delations, working from the heart That passion cannot rule. For Michael Cassio, I dare be sworn I think that he is honest. I think so too. Men should be what they seem; Or those that be not, would they might seem none! Certain, men should be what they seem. Why, then, I think Cassio's an honest man. Nay, yet there's more in this: I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words. Good my lord, pardon me: Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false; As where's that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not? who has a breast so pure, But some uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-days and in session sit With meditations lawful? Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest his ear A stranger to thy thoughts. I do beseech you-- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, As, I confess, it is my nature's plague To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy Shapes faults that are not--that your wisdom yet, From one that so imperfectly conceits, Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance. It were not for your quiet nor your good, Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, To let you know my thoughts. What dost thou mean? Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands: But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed. By heaven,