Othello
Ay, and for that thou diest.
Desdemona
That death’s unnatural that kills for loving.
Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?
Some bloody passion shakes your very frame:
These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,
They do not point on me.
Othello
Peace, and be still!
Desdemona
I will so. What’s the matter?
Othello
That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee
Thou gavest to Cassio.
Desdemona
No, by my life and soul!
Send for the man, and ask him.
Othello
Sweet soul, take heed,
Take heed of perjury; thou art on thy deathbed.
Desdemona
Ay, but not yet to die.
Othello
Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin;
For to deny each article with oath
Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception
That I do groan withal. Thou art to die.