Othello. William Shakespeare

       DESDEMONA

       Seek him, bid him come hither: tell him I have moved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will be well.

       CLOWN

       To do this is within the compass of man’s wit; and therefore I will attempt the doing it.

       [Exit.]

       DESDEMONA

       Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia?

       EMILIA

       I know not, madam.

       DESDEMONA

       Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse

       Full of crusadoes: and, but my noble Moor

       Is true of mind and made of no such baseness

       As jealous creatures are, it were enough

       To put him to ill thinking.

       EMILIA

       Is he not jealous?

       DESDEMONA

       Who, he? I think the sun where he was born

       Drew all such humours from him.

       EMILIA

       Look, where he comes.

       DESDEMONA

       I will not leave him now till Cassio

       Be call’d to him.

       [Enter Othello.]

       How is’t with you, my lord?

       OTHELLO

       Well, my good lady.— [Aside.] O, hardness to dissemble!—

       How do you, Desdemona?

       DESDEMONA

       Well, my good lord.

       OTHELLO

       Give me your hand: this hand is moist, my lady.

       DESDEMONA

       It yet hath felt no age nor known no sorrow.

       OTHELLO

       This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart:—

       Hot, hot, and moist: this hand of yours requires

       A sequester from liberty, fasting, and prayer,

       Much castigation, exercise devout;

       For here’s a young and sweating devil here

       That commonly rebels. ‘Tis a good hand,

       A frank one.

       DESDEMONA

       You may, indeed, say so;

       For ‘twas that hand that gave away my heart.

       OTHELLO

       A liberal hand: the hearts of old gave hands;

       But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.

       DESDEMONA

       I cannot speak of this. Come now, your promise.

       OTHELLO

       What promise, chuck?

       DESDEMONA

       I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you.

       OTHELLO

       I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me;

       Lend me thy handkerchief.

       DESDEMONA

       Here, my lord.

       OTHELLO

       That which I gave you.

       DESDEMONA

       I have it not about me.

       OTHELLO

       Not?

       DESDEMONA

       No, faith, my lord.

       OTHELLO

       That is a fault. That handkerchief

       Did an Egyptian to my mother give;

       She was a charmer, and could almost read

       The thoughts of people: she told her, while she kept it,

       ‘Twould make her amiable and subdue my father

       Entirely to her love; but if she lost it

       Or made a gift of it, my father’s eye

       Should hold her loathed, and his spirits should hunt

       After new fancies: she, dying, gave it me;

       And bid me, when my fate would have me wive,

       To give it her. I did so: and take heed on’t;

       Make it a darling like your precious eye;

       To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition

       As nothing else could match.

       DESDEMONA

       Is’t possible?

       OTHELLO

       ‘Tis true: there’s magic in the web of it:

       A sibyl, that had number’d in the world

       The sun to course two hundred compasses,

       In her prophetic fury sew’d the work;

       The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk;

       And it was dy’d in mummy which the skillful

       Conserv’d of maiden’s hearts.

       DESDEMONA

       Indeed! is’t true?

       OTHELLO

       Most veritable; therefore look to’t well.

       DESDEMONA

       Then would to God that I had never seen’t!

       OTHELLO

       Ha! wherefore?

       DESDEMONA

       Why do you speak so startingly and rash?

       OTHELLO

       Is’t lost? is’t gone? speak, is it out of the way?

       DESDEMONA

       Heaven bless us!

       OTHELLO

       Say you?

       DESDEMONA

       It is not lost; but what an if it were?

       OTHELLO

       How!

       DESDEMONA

       I say, it is not lost.

       OTHELLO

       Fetch’t, let me see’t.

       DESDEMONA

       Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now.

       This is a trick to put me from my suit:

       Pray you, let Cassio be receiv’d again.

       OTHELLO

       Fetch me the handkerchief: my mind misgives.

       DESDEMONA

       Come, come;

       You’ll never meet a more sufficient man.

       OTHELLO

       The handkerchief!

       DESDEMONA

       I pray, talk me of Cassio.

       OTHELLO

       The handkerchief!

       DESDEMONA

       A man that all his time

       Hath founded his good fortunes on your love,

       Shar’d dangers with you,—