Desdemona (cont.)
Come, how wouldst thou praise me?
Iago
I am about it; but indeed my invention
Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize;
It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours,
And thus she is deliver’d.
If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,
The one’s for use, the other useth it.
Desdemona
Well praised! How if she be black and witty?
Iago
She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit.