I greet thy love, Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous, And will upon the instant put thee to’t: Within these three days let me hear thee say That Cassio’s not alive.

My friend is dead; ’tis done at your request: But let her live.

Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her! Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.

Before the castle.

Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse Full of crusadoes: and, but my noble Moor Is true of mind and made of no such baseness As jealous creatures are, it were enough To put him to ill thinking.

Who, he? I think the sun where he was born Drew all such humours from him.

I will not leave him now till Cassio Be call’d to him.

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