A white Othello, I can trust
A dingy Desdemona.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Room in the Crown.
[Enter Inkle.]
Inkle. I know not what to think—I have given her distant hints of parting; but still, so strong her confidence in my affection, she prattles on without regarding me. Poor Yarico! I must not—cannot quit her. When I would speak, her look, her mere simplicity disarms me; I dare not wound such innocence. Simplicity is like a smiling babe, which, to the ruffian that would murder it, stretching its little naked, helpless arms, pleads, speechless, its own cause. And yet, Narcissa's family—
Enter Trudge.
Trudge. There he is; like a beau bespeaking a coat—doubting which colour to choose—Sir—
Inkle. What now?