O my fair warrior!

DESDEMONA.
My dear Othello!

OTHELLO.
It gives me wonder great as my content
To see you here before me. O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die,
'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.

DESDEMONA.
The heavens forbid
But that our loves and comforts should increase
Even as our days do grow!

OTHELLO.
Amen to that, sweet powers!--
I cannot speak enough of this content;
It stops me here; it is too much of joy:
And this, and this, the greatest discords be

[Kissing her.]