him nine years a-killing.
A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman!
Nay, you must forget that.
Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night;
for she shall not live: no, my heart is turned to
stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the
world hath not a sweeter creature: she might lie by
an emperor's side and command him tasks.
Nay, that's not your way.
Hang her! I do but say what she is: so delicate
with her needle: an admirable musician: O! she
will sing the savageness out of a bear: of so high
and plenteous wit and invention:--
She's the worse for all this.
O, a thousand thousand times: and then, of so
gentle a condition!
Ay, too gentle.
Nay, that's certain: but yet the pity of it, Iago!
O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!
If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her
patent to offend; for, if it touch not you, it comes
near nobody.
I will chop her into messes: cuckold me!
O, 'tis foul in her.
With mine officer!
That's fouler.
Get me some poison, Iago; this night: I'll not
expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty
unprovide my mind again: this night, Iago.
Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, even
the bed she hath contaminated.
Good, good: the justice of it pleases: very good.
And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker: you
shall hear more by midnight.
Excellent good.
What trumpet is that same?
Something from Venice, sure. 'Tis Lodovico
Come from the duke: and, see, your wife is with him.
Save you, worthy general!
With all my heart, sir.
The duke and senators of Venice greet you.
I kiss the instrument of their pleasures.
And what's the news, good cousin Lodovico?
I am very glad to see you, signior
Welcome to Cyprus.
I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio?
Lives, sir.
Cousin, there's fall'n between him and my lord
An unkind breach: but you shall make all well.
Are you sure of that?
My lord?
'This fail you not to do, as you will--'
He did not call; he's busy in the paper.
Is there division 'twixt my lord and Cassio?
A most unhappy one: I would do much
To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio.
Fire and brimstone!
My lord?
Are you wise?
What, is he angry?
May be the letter moved him;