Clo. To do this, is within the compasse of mans Wit, and therefore I will attempt the doing it.
Exit Clo.
Des. Where should I loose the Handkerchiefe, aemilia?
Aemil. I know not Madam
Des. Beleeue me, I had rather haue lost my purse
Full of Cruzadoes. And but my Noble Moore
Is true of minde, and made of no such basenesse,
As iealious Creatures are, it were enough
To put him to ill-thinking.
Aemil. Is he not iealious?
Des. Who, he? I thinke the Sun where he was borne,
Drew all such humors from him.
Aemil. Looke where he comes.
Enter Othello.
Des. I will not leaue him now, till Cassio be
Call'd to him. How is't with you, my Lord?
Oth. Well my good Lady. Oh hardnes to dissemble!
How do you, Desdemona?
Des. Well, my good Lord
Oth. Giue me your hand.
This hand is moist, my Lady
Des. It hath felt no age, nor knowne no sorrow
Oth. This argues fruitfulnesse, and liberall heart:
Hot, hot, and moyst. This hand of yours requires
A sequester from Liberty: Fasting, and Prayer,
Much Castigation, Exercise deuout,
For heere's a yong, and sweating Diuell heere
That commonly rebels: 'Tis a good hand,
A franke one
Des. You may (indeed) say so:
For 'twas that hand that gaue away my heart
Oth. A liberall hand. The hearts of old, gaue hands:
But our new Heraldry is hands, not hearts