Come hither. If thou be’st valiant
Come hither. If
thou be'st valiant—as they say base men being in
love have then a nobility in their natures more than
is native to them—list me. The Lieutenant tonight
watches on the court of guard. First, I must tell thee
this: Desdemona is directly in love with him.
With him? Why, 'tis not possible.
Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed.
Mark me with what violence she first loved the
Moor but for bragging and telling her fantastical
lies. And will she love him still for prating? Let not
thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed. And
what delight shall she have to look on the devil?
When the blood is made dull with the act of sport,
there should be, again to inflame it and to give
satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favor, sympathy
in years, manners, and beauties, all which the Moor
is defective in. Now, for want of these required
conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find itself
abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and
abhor the Moor. Very nature will instruct her in it
and compel her to some second choice. Now, sir,
this granted—as it is a most pregnant and unforced
position—who stands so eminent in the degree of
this fortune as Cassio does? A knave very voluble, no
further conscionable than in putting on the mere
form of civil and humane seeming for the better
compassing of his salt and most hidden loose
affection. Why, none, why, none! A slipper and
subtle knave, a finder-out of occasions, that has an
eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though
true advantage never present itself; a devilish knave!
Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all
those requisites in him that folly and green minds
look after. A pestilent complete knave, and the
woman hath found him already.
I cannot believe that in her. She's full of
most blessed condition.
Iago Blessed fig's end! The wine she drinks is made of
grapes. If she had been blessed, she would never
have loved the Moor. Blessed pudding! Didst thou
not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? Didst
not mark that?
Yes, that I did. But that was but courtesy.
Lechery, by this hand! An index and obscure
prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts.
They met so near with their lips that their breaths
embraced together. Villainous thoughts, Roderigo!
When these mutualities so marshal the way, hard
at hand comes the master and main exercise, th'