But jealous, for they're jealous. It is a Monster Def. Heav'n keep the Monster from Othello's mind. Def. I will go feek him. Caffio, walk hereabout; Enter Bianca. Bian. 'Save you, Friend Caffio. Caf. What makes you from home? Caf. Pardon me, Bianca: I have this while with leaden thoughts been preft, Strike off this Score of Abfence. Sweet Bianca, [Exit. [Giving her Desdemona's Handkerchief. Take me this work out." Bian. Oh Caffio, whence came this? This is fome Token from a newer Friend; To the felt-abfence, now I feel a Caufe: Is't come to this? Well, well. Caf. Go to, Woman; Throw your vild gueffes in the Devil's Teeth, From whence you have them. You are jealous now That this is from fome Mistress, fome remembrance; No, in good troth, Bianca. Bian. Why, whofe is it? Caf. I know not neither; I found it in my Chamber; I like the work well; e'er it be demanded, As like enough it will, I would have it copied : Caf. I do attend here on the General, And And think it no Addition, nor my wish Caf. Not that I love you not. Bian. But that you do not love me; Caf. 'Tis but a little way that I can bring you, Bian. 'Tis very good; I must be circumstanc'd. [Exeunt. A C T IV. SCENE I. SCENE A Room of State. Ill Enter Othello, and Jago. you think fo? Fago. We Think fo, Fago & Óth. Jago. What, to kifs in private? Oth. An unauthorized kifs? Jago. Or to be naked with her Friend in bed, An Hour or more, not meaning any harm? Oth. Naked in bed, fage, and not mean harm? It is Hypocrifie against the Devil : They that mean virtuously, and yet do fo, The Devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt Heav'n. Oth. What then? Jago. Why then, 'tis hers, my Lord, and being hers, She may, I think, beftow't on any Man. Oth. She is Protectress of her Honour too; May the give that ? Jago. Her Honour is an Effence that's not feen, They have it very oft that have it not. But for the Handkerchief Oth. By Heav'n I would moft gladly have forgot it; Thou 1 Thou faidft, Oh, it comes o'er my Memory, Oth. That's not fo good now. Fago. What if I had faid, I had feen him do you wrong? Or voluntary Dotage of fome Mistress, Oth. Hath he faid any thing? Jago. He hath my Lord, but be you well affur'd, No more than he'll unfwear. Oth. What hath he faid? Jago. Why, that he did ---- I know not what he did Oth. What? what? Jago. Lye Oth. With her? Jago. With her? on her what you will Oth. Lye with her! lye on her! we fay, lye on her, when they be-lye her. Lye with her! that's fulfom: Hand kerchief Confeffions and be hang'd for his Labour Handkerchief to confefs, Firft, to be hang'd, and then to Confefs ---- I tremble at it--- Nature would not inveft her felf in fuch fhadowing Paffion, without some instruction. It is not words that fake me thus pish Ears and Lips is't poffible! Confefs ! Nofes, [Falls in a Trance. My Medicine works; thus credulous Fools are caught; How now, Caffio? Enter Caffio. Caf. What's the matter ! Jago. My Lord is faln into an Epilepfie, This is the fecond Fit; he had one Yesterday. Caf. Rub him about the Temples. Fago. Jago. The Lethargy must have his quiet courfe; [Exit Caffio: Head. Jago. I mock you not, by Heav'n ; Oth. Did he confess it? Jago. Good Sir, be a Man: Think every bearded Fellow that's but yoak'd Which they dare fwear peculiar. Your caufe is better. " And to fuppofe her chaft. No, let the know, Jago. Stand you a while apart, Whil'ft you were here, o'er-whelmed with your Grief Oth. Oth. Doft thou hear, Jago, I will be found moft cunning in my patience; Jago. That's not amifs; But yet keep time in all. "Will you withdraw. Now will I queftion Caffio of Bianca, A Hufwife, that by felling her defires, [Othello withdraws. Buys her felf Bread and Cloth. It is a Creature As he fhall fmile, Othello fhall go mad; Fago. Ply Desdemona well, and you are fure on't: How quickly fhould you speed? Caf. Alas, poor Caitiff. Oth. Look how he laughs already. [Speaking lower. Jago. I never knew a Woman love Man fo. Oth. Now he importunes him To tell it o'er: Go to, well faid, well faid. Caf. Ha, ha, ha. Oth. Do ye triumph, Roman? do you triumph? Oth. So, fo: They laugh that win. Jago. Why, the cry goes, that you shall marry her. VOL. V. Caf |