Scæna Quarta.
Enter Desdemona, Æmilia, and Clown.
Des.
Do you know Sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lyes?
Clow.
I dare not say he lies any where.
Des.
Why man?
Clo.
He's a Soldier, and for me to say a Souldier lyes, 'tis stabbing.
Des.
Go too: where lodges he?
Clo.
To tell you where he lodges, is to tel you where I lye.
Des.
Can any thing be made of this?
Clo.
I know not where he lodges, and for mee to deuise a lodging, and say he lies heere, or he lies there, were to lye in mine owne throat.
Des.
Can you enquire him out? and be edified by report?
Clo.
I will Catechize the world for him, that is, make Questions, and by them answer.
Des.
Seeke him, bidde him come hither: tell him, I haue moou'd my Lord on his behalfe, and hope all will be well.
Clo.
To do this, is within the compasse of mans Wit, and therefore I will attempt the doing it. Exit Clo.
Des.
Where should I loose the Handkerchiefe, Æmilia?
Æmil.
I know not Madam.
Des.
Beleeue me, I had rather haue lost my purse
Full of Cruzadoes. And but my Noble Moore
Is true of minde, and made of no such basenesse,
As iealious Creatures are, it were enough
To put him to ill-thinking.
Æmil.
Is he not iealious?
Des.
Who, he? I thinke the Sun where he was borne,
Drew all such humors from him.
Æmil.
Looke where he comes.
Enter Othello.
Des.
I will not leaue him now, till Cassio be
Call'd to him. How is't with you, my Lord?
Oth.
Well my good Lady. Oh hardnes to dissemble!
How do you, Desdemona?
Des.
Well, my good Lord.
Oth.
Giue me your hand.
This hand is moist, my Lady.
Des.
It hath felt no age, nor knowne no sorrow.
Oth.
This argues fruitfulnesse, and liberall heart:
Hot, hot, and moyst. This hand of yours requires
A sequester from Liberty: Fasting, and Prayer,
Much Castigation, Exercise deuout,
For heere's a yong, and sweating Diuell here
That commonly rebels: 'Tis a good hand,
A franke one.
Des.
You may (indeed) say so:
For 'twas that hand that gaue away my heart.
Oth.
A liberall hand. The hearts of old, gaue hands:
But our new Heraldry is hands, not hearts.
Des.
I cannot speake of this:
Come, now your promise.
Oth.
What promise, Chucke?
Des.
I haue sent to bid Cassio come speake with you.
Oth.
I haue a salt and sorry Rhewme offends me:
Lend me thy Handkerchiefe.
Des.
Heere my Lord.
Oth.
That which I gaue you.
Des.
I haue it not about me.
Oth.
Not?
Des.
No indeed, my Lord.
Oth.
That's a fault: That Handkerchiefe
Did an Ægyptian to my Mother giue:
She was a Charmer, and could almost read
The thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it,
'T would make her Amiable, and subdue my Father
Intirely to her loue: But if she lost it,
Or made a Guift of it, my Fathers eye
Should hold her loathed, and his Spirits should hunt
After new Fancies. She dying, gaue it me,
And bid me (when my Fate would haue me Wiu'd)
To giue it her. I did so; and take heede on't,
Make it a Darling, like your precious eye:
To loose't, or giue't away, were such perdition,
As nothing else could match.
Des.
Is't possible?
Oth.
'Tis true: There's Magicke in the web of it:
A Sybill that had numbred in the world
The Sun to course, two hundred compasses,
In her Prophetticke furie sow'd the Worke:
The Wormes were hallowed, that did breede the Silke,
And it was dyde in Mummey, which the Skilfull
Conseru'd of Maidens hearts.
Des.
Indeed? Is't true?
Oth.
Most veritable, therefore looke too't well.
Des.
Then would to Heauen, that I had neuer seene't?
Oth.
Ha? wherefore?
Des.
Why do you speake so startingly, and rash?
Oth.
Is't lost? Is't gon? Speak, is't out o'th'way?
Des.
Blesse vs.
Oth.
Say you?
Des.
It is not lost: but what and if it were?
Oth.
How?
Des.
I say it is not lost.
Oth.
Fetcht, let me see't.
Des.
Why so I can: but I will not now:
This is a tricke to put me from my suite,
Pray you let Cassio be receiu'd againe.
Oth.
Fetch me the Handkerchiefe,
My minde mis-giues.
Des.
Come, come: you'l neuer meete a more sufficient man.
Oth.
The Handkerchiefe.
Des.
A man that all his time
Hath founded his good Fortunes on your loue;
Shar'd dangers with you.
Oth.
The Handkerchiefe.
Des.
Insooth, you are too blame.
Oth.
Away. Exit Othello.
Æmil.
Is not this man iealious?
Des.
I neu'r saw this before.
Sure, there's some wonder in this Handkerchiefe,
I am most vnhappy in the losse of it.
Æmil.
'Tis not a yeare or two shewes vs a man:
They are all but Stomackes, and we all but Food,
They eate vs hungerly, and when they are full
They belch vs.
Enter Iago, and Cassio.
Iago.
There is no other way: 'tis she must doo't:
And loe the happinesse: go, and importune her.
Des.
