A maiden never bold; Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion Blush’d at herself; and she, in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, every thing, To fall in love with what she fear’d to look on! It is a judgment maim’d and most imperfect That will confess perfection so could err Against all rules of nature, and must be driven To find out practises of cunning hell, Why this should be. I therefore vouch again That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood, Or with some dram conjured to this effect, He wrought upon her.

To vouch this, is no proof, Without more wider and more overt test Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him.

But, Othello, speak: Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections? Or came it by request and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth?