Oth. I would haue him nine yeeres a killing:
A fine woman, a faire woman, a sweete woman?
Iago. Nay, you must forget that
Othello. I, let her rot and perish, and be damn'd to night, for she shall not liue. No, my heart is turn'd to stone: I strike it, and it hurts my hand. Oh, the world hath not a sweeter Creature: she might lye by an Emperours side, and command him Taskes
Iago. Nay, that's not your way
Othe. Hang her, I do but say what she is: so delicate with her Needle: an admirable Musitian. Oh she will sing the Sauagenesse out of a Beare: of so high and plenteous wit, and inuention? Iago. She's the worse for all this
Othe. Oh, a thousand, a thousand times:
And then of so gentle a condition?
Iago. I too gentle
Othe. Nay that's certaine:
But yet the pitty of it, Iago: oh Iago, the pitty of it
Iago
Iago. If you are so fond ouer her iniquitie: giue her pattent to offend, for if it touch not you, it comes neere no body
Oth. I will chop her into Messes: Cuckold me?
Iago. Oh, 'tis foule in her
Oth. With mine Officer?
Iago. That's fouler
Othe. Get me some poyson, Iago, this night. Ile not expostulate with her: least her body and beautie vnprouide my mind againe: this night Iago