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;