1 If thou dost, I shall never love thee after.
2 That death's unnatural that kills for loving.
3 I humbly do beseech you of your pardon For too much loving you.
4 I do love Cassio well and would do much To cure him of this evil.
5 Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end.
6 Now sir, be judge yourself Whether I in any just term am affin'd To love the Moor.
7 Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon.
8 The lieutenant tonight watches on the court of guard: first, I must tell thee this: Desdemona is directly in love with him.
9 For know, Iago, But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused free condition Put into circumscription and confine For the sea's worth.
10 But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect, or scion.
11 In which regard, Though I do hate him as I do hell pains, Yet, for necessity of present life, I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign.
12 That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence and storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world: my heart's subdued Even to the very quality of my lord.
13 Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame: he hath not yet made wanton the night with her; and she is sport for Jove.
14 And till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine.
15 So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, A moth of peace, and he go to the war, The rites for which I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall support By his dear absence.
16 That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it; That she loves him, 'tis apt, and of great credit: The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble nature; And, I dare think, he'll prove to Desdemona A most dear husband.'
17 Now my sick fool Roderigo, Whom love hath turn'd almost the wrong side out, To Desdemona hath tonight carous'd Potations pottle-deep; and he's to watch: Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, That hold their honours in a wary distance, The very elements of this warlike isle, Have I tonight fluster'd with flowing cups, And they watch too.
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