Emilia
Never, my lord.
Othello
Nor send you out o’ the way?
Emilia
Never.
Othello
To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing?
Emilia
Never, my lord.
Othello
That’s strange.
Emilia
I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest,
Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other,
Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom.
If any wretch have put this in your head,
Let heaven requite it with the serpent’s curse!
For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true,
There’s no man happy; the purest of their wives
Is foul as slander.
Othello
Bid her come hither: go.
She says enough; yet she’s a simple bawd
That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore,
A closet lock and key of villainous secrets
And yet she’ll kneel and pray; I have seen her do’t.
Exit Emilia.