Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk:
You rise to play, and go to bed to work.

EMILIA.
You shall not write my praise.

IAGO.
No, let me not.

DESDEMONA.
What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?

IAGO.
O gentle lady, do not put me to't;
For I am nothing if not critical.

DESDEMONA.
Come on, assay--There's one gone to the harbor?

IAGO.
Ay, madam.

DESDEMONA.
I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.--
Come, how wouldst thou praise me?

IAGO.
I am about it; but, indeed, my invention
Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize,--