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Her honor is an essence that’s not seen,they have it very oft that have it not. But for the handkerchief—
By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it. Thou saidst—Oh, it comes o'er my memory, as doth the raven o'er the infectious house, boding to all—he had my handkerchief.
With her, on her, what you will.
Lie with her? lie on her? We say “lie on her” when they belie her! Lie with her—that’s fulsome. Handkerchief—confessions—handkerchief! To confess, and be hanged for his labor. First to be hanged, and then to confess—I tremble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction. It is not words that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. Is ’t possible? Confess!—Handkerchief!—Oh, devil!—
Dost thou hear, Iago? I will be found most cunning in my patience, but—dost thou hear?—most bloody.
That’s not amiss, but yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw?
Now will I question Cassio of Bianca, a huswife that by selling her desires buys herself bread and clothes. It is a creature that dotes on Cassio, as ’tis the strumpet’s plague to beguile many and be beguiled by one. He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain rom the excess of laughter. Here he comes.
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