DESDEMONA.
Trust me, I am glad on’t.
OTHELLO.
Indeed!
DESDEMONA.
My lord?
OTHELLO.
I am glad to see you mad.
DESDEMONA.
Why, sweet Othello?
OTHELLO.
Devil!
[Striking her.]
DESDEMONA.
I have not deserv’d this.
LODOVICO.
My lord, this would not be believ’d in Venice,
Though I should swear I saw’t: ’tis very much.
Make her amends. She weeps.
OTHELLO.
O devil, devil!
If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.
Out of my sight!