This deede of thine is no more worthy Heauen,
Then thou was't worthy her

Oth. Peace, you were best.
Aemil. Thou hast not halfe that powre to do me harm,
As I haue to be hurt. Oh Gull, oh dolt,
As ignorant as durt: thou hast done a deed
(I care not for thy Sword) Ile make thee known,
Though I lost twenty liues. Helpe, helpe, hoa, helpe:
The Moore hath kill'd my Mistris. Murther, murther.
Enter Montano, Gratiano, and Iago.

Mon. What is the matter? How now Generall?
Aemil. Oh, are you come, Iago: you haue done well,
That men must lay their Murthers on your necke

Gra. What is the matter?
Aemil. Disproue this Villaine, if thou bee'st a man:
He sayes, thou told'st him that his wife was false:
I know thou did'st not: thou'rt not such a Villain.
Speake, for my heart is full

Iago. I told him what I thought,
And told no more
Then what he found himselfe was apt, and true.
Aemil. But did you euer tell him,
She was false?
Iago. I did.
Aemil. You told a Lye an odious damned Lye:
Vpon my Soule, a Lye; a wicked Lye.