EMILIA.
Is he not jealous?
DESDEMONA.
Who, he? I think the sun where he was born
Drew all such humours from him.
EMILIA.
Look, where he comes.
Enter Othello.
DESDEMONA.
I will not leave him now till Cassio
Be call’d to him. How is’t with you, my lord?
OTHELLO.
Well, my good lady. [Aside.] O, hardness to dissemble!
How do you, Desdemona?
DESDEMONA.
Well, my good lord.
OTHELLO.
Give me your hand. This hand is moist, my lady.
DESDEMONA.
It yet hath felt no age nor known no sorrow.
OTHELLO.
This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart.
Hot, hot, and moist. This hand of yours requires
A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer,
Much castigation, exercise devout;
For here’s a young and sweating devil here
That commonly rebels. ’Tis a good hand,
A frank one.