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News, lads! our wars are done. The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks, That their designment halts: a noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet.
He takes her by the palm: ay, well said, whisper: with as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship.
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble nature, And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona A most dear husband.
O, they are our friends — but one cup, I'll drink for you.
Not tonight, good Iago: I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.
'Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to the death. He dies!
Cassio, I love thee But never more be officer of mine.
What, are you hurt, lieutenant?
Two things are to be done: My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress — I'll set her on — Myself the while to draw the Moor apart, And bring him jump when he may Cassio find Soliciting his wife. Ay, that's the way Dull not device by coldness and delay.
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