Othello
Well, my good lady.
O, hardness to dissemble!—
How do you, Desdemona?
Aside.
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.