Iago. Nay, that's not your way

Othe. Hang her, I do but say what she is: so delicate
with her Needle: an admirable Musitian. Oh she will
sing the Sauagenesse out of a Beare: of so high and plenteous
wit, and inuention?
Iago. She's the worse for all this

Othe. Oh, a thousand, a thousand times:
And then of so gentle a condition?
Iago. I too gentle

Othe. Nay that's certaine:
But yet the pitty of it, Iago: oh Iago, the pitty of it
Iago

Iago. If you are so fond ouer her iniquitie: giue her
pattent to offend, for if it touch not you, it comes neere
no body

Oth. I will chop her into Messes: Cuckold me?
Iago. Oh, 'tis foule in her

Oth. With mine Officer?
Iago. That's fouler

Othe. Get me some poyson, Iago, this night. Ile not
expostulate with her: least her body and beautie vnprouide
my mind againe: this night Iago