Act III

I prithee, do so.

Something, sure, of state,

Either from Venice, or some unhatch’d practise

Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,

Hath puddled his clear spirit: and in such cases

Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things,

Though great ones are their object. ’Tis even so;

For let our finger ache, and it indues

Our other healthful members even to that sense

Of pain: nay, we must think men are not gods,

Nor of them look for such observances

As fit the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia,

I was, unhandsome warrior as I am,

Arraigning his unkindness with my soul;

But now I find I had suborn’d the witness,

And he’s indicted falsely.

Pray heaven it be state-matters, as you think,

And no conception nor no jealous toy

Concerning you.

Alas the day! I never gave him cause.

They are not ever jealous for the cause,

But jealous for they are jealous: ’tis a monster

Begot upon itself, born on itself.