Good friend, go to him—for by this light of heaven
I know not how I lost him: here I kneel:—
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed;
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did,
And ever will, though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much,
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love.
And there is one stroke of consummate delicacy surprising, when we remember the latitude of expression prevailing in Shakspeare's time, and which he allowed to his other women generally: she says, on recovering from her stupefaction—
Am I that name, Iago?
IAGO.
What name, sweet lady?
DESDEMONA.
That which she says my lord did say I was.
So completely did Shakspeare enter into the angelic refinement of the character.
Endued with that temper which is the origin of superstition in love as in religion,—which, in fact makes love itself a religion,—she not only does not utter an upbraiding, but nothing that Othello does or says, no outrage, no injustice, can tear away the charm with which her imagination had invested him, or impair her faith in his honor; "Would you had never seen him!" exclaims Emilia.
DESDEMONA.