Part 18

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, aemilia? Aemil. 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. Aemil. Is he not iealious? Des. Who, he? I thinke the Sun where he was borne, Drew all such humors from him. Aemil. 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 heere 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 aegyptian 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