DESDEMONA.
Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse
Full of crusadoes. And but my noble Moor
Is true of mind and made of no such baseness
As jealous creatures are, it were enough
To put him to ill thinking.
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.