Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write “whore” upon? What committed! Committed! O thou public commoner! I should make very forges of my cheeks, That would to cinders burn up modesty, Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed! Heaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks, The bawdy wind that kisses all it meets Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth, And will not hear it. What committed! Impudent strumpet!

No, as I am a Christian: If to preserve this vessel for my lord From any other foul unlawful touch Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.

I cry you mercy, then: I took you for that cunning whore of Venice That married with Othello. Raising his voice. You, mistress, That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keep the gate of hell!