Too great the deadly keenness to confess
Of traitor steel sent clean to the heart’s core:
Sighs Iago, bent in soothing half-embrace,
“A little this hath dashed your mood, I wot!”
Then, majesty at full in eyes and face,
Large soul to the lower’s level stooping not,
Dark head thrown back, with that grand Southern grace
He waves his eloquent hands—“Nay, not a jot!”