And then, sir, would he gripe, and wring my hand,
Cry, “Oh, sweet creature!” and then kiss me hard,
As if he plucked up kisses by the roots,
That grew upon my lips.
Othello, iii. 3.
Othello. I kissed thee ere I killed thee,—no way but this,
Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.
Othello, v. 2.