OTHELLO.
Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned tonight, for she shall not live. No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the world hath not a sweeter creature. She might lie by an emperor’s side, and command him tasks.
IAGO.
Nay, that’s not your way.
OTHELLO.
Hang her, I do but say what she is. So delicate with her needle, an admirable musician! O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear! Of so high and plenteous wit and invention!
IAGO.
She’s the worse for all this.
OTHELLO.
O, a thousand, a thousand times: and then of so gentle a condition!
IAGO.
Ay, too gentle.
OTHELLO.
Nay, that’s certain. But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!
IAGO.
If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend, for if it touch not you, it comes near nobody.
OTHELLO.
I will chop her into messes. Cuckold me!
IAGO.
O, ’tis foul in her.