Des. Trust me, I am glad on't
Othe. Indeed?
Des. My Lord?
Othe. I am glad to see you mad
Des. Why, sweete Othello?
Othe. Diuell
Des. I haue not deseru'd this
Lod. My Lord, this would not be beleeu'd in Venice,
Though I should sweare I saw't. 'Tis very much,
Make her amends: she weepes
Othe. Oh diuell, diuell:
If that the Earth could teeme with womans teares,
Each drop she falls, would proue a Crocodile:
Out of my sight
Des. I will not stay to offend you
Lod. Truely obedient Lady:
I do beseech your Lordship call her backe
Othe. Mistris
Des. My Lord