High lights are faintly suggested on the forehead and on the cheek bones.
The beard, which had better be of crepe hair, should be so applied that the flesh shows through.
Reddish brown powder is used, and the make-up is finished by painting strong black lines on the edges of the eyelids. The eyebrows are also of black. The lips are No. 13 with a little carmine added.
Ear-rings and a turban help the make-up.
OTHELLO AND IAGO
Iago. I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin,
And let him find it. Trifles, light as air,
Are to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ. This may do something.
The Moor already changes with my poison:
Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons,
Which, at the first, are scarce found to distaste;
But, with a little act upon the blood,
Burn like the mines of sulphur.—I did say so:—
Enter Othello.
Look, where he comes! Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep,
Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
Othello. Ha! ha! false to me? To me?
Iago. Why, how now, general? no more of that.
Othello. Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the rack—
I swear, 'tis better to be much abus'd,
Than but to know't a little.
Iago. How now, my lord?
Othello. What sense had I of her stolen hours of lust?
I saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me:
I slept the next night well, was free and merry;
I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips:
He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stolen,
Let him not know't, and he's not robb'd at all.
Iago. I am sorry to hear this.
Othello. I had been happy, if the general camp,
Pioneers and all, had tasted her sweet body,
So I had nothing known: O now, for ever,
Farewell, the tranquil mind: farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner; and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
Iago. Is't possible, my lord?
Othello. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore:
Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof;