He went hence but now, And certainly in strange unquietness.

Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon, When it hath blown his ranks into the air, And, like the devil, from his very arm Puff’d his own brother:⁠—and can he be angry? Something of moment then: I will go meet him: There’s matter in’t indeed, if he be angry.

I prithee, do so. Exit Iago. 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.