Iago. Infaith too much:
I finde it still, when I haue leaue to sleepe.
Marry before your Ladyship, I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart,
And chides with thinking

aemil. You haue little cause to say so

Iago. Come on, come on: you are Pictures out of
doore: Bells in your Parlours: Wilde-Cats in your Kitchens:
Saints in your Iniuries: Diuels being offended:
Players in your Huswiferie, and Huswiues in your
Beds

Des. Oh, fie vpon thee, Slanderer

Iago. Nay, it is true: or else I am a Turke,
You rise to play, and go to bed to worke.
Aemil. You shall not write my praise

Iago. No, let me not

Desde. What would'st write of me, if thou should'st
praise me?
Iago. Oh, gentle Lady, do not put me too't,
For I am nothing, if not Criticall

Des. Come on, assay.
There's one gone to the Harbour?