Othe. Bid her come hither: go.
Exit aemilia.
She saies enough: yet she's a simple Baud
That cannot say as much. This is a subtile Whore:
A Closset Locke and Key of Villanous Secrets,
And yet she'le kneele, and pray: I haue seene her do't.
Enter Desdemona, and aemilia.
Des. My Lord, what is your will?
Othe. Pray you Chucke come hither
Des. What is your pleasure?
Oth. Let me see your eyes: looke in my face
Des. What horrible Fancie's this?
Othe. Some of your Function Mistris:
Leaue Procreants alone, and shut the doore:
Cough, or cry hem; if any body come:
Your Mystery, your Mystery: May dispatch.
Exit aemi.
Des. Vpon my knee, what doth your speech import?
I vnderstand a Fury in your words
Othe. Why? What art thou?
Des. Your wife my Lord: your true and loyall wife
Othello. Come sweare it: damne thy selfe, least being like one of Heauen, the diuells themselues should feare to ceaze thee. Therefore be double damn'd: sweare thou art honest