his pernicious soul Rot half a grain a day! he lies to the heart: She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. Ha! Do thy worst: This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou wast worthy her. Peace, you were best. Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt! thou hast done a deed-- I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives.--Help! help, ho! help! The Moor hath kill'd my mistress! Murder! murder! What is the matter? How now, general! O, are you come, Iago? you have done well, That men must lay their murders on your neck. What is the matter? Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man: He says thou told'st him that his wife was false: I know thou didst not, thou'rt not such a villain: Speak, for my heart is full. I told him what I thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true. But did you ever tell him she was false? I did. You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie. She false with Cassio!--did you say with Cassio? With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue. I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak: My mistress here lies murder'd in her bed,-- O heavens forfend! And your reports have set the murder on. Nay, stare not, masters: it is true, indeed. 'Tis a strange truth. O monstrous act! Villany, villany, villany! I think upon't, I think: I smell't: O villany!-- I thought so then:--I'll kill myself for grief:-- O villany, villany! What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak: 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now. Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home. O! O! O! Nay, lay thee down and roar; For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent That e'er did lift up eye. O, she was foul! I scarce did know you, uncle: there lies your niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp'd: I know this act shows horrible and grim. Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead: Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, This sight would make him do