Iago
Sir, would she give you so much of her lips
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,
You’ll have enough.
Desdemona
Alas, she has no speech.
Iago
In faith, too much;
I find it still, when I have list to sleep:
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart,
And chides with thinking.
Emilia
You have little cause to say so.
Iago
Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,
Bells in your parlors, wild-cats in your kitchens,
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,
Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.
Desdemona
O, fie upon thee, slanderer!
Iago
Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk:
You rise to play and go to bed to work.