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That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence and storm of fortunes, May trumpet to the world: my heart's subdued Even to the very quality of my lord
I saw Othello's visage in his mind, And to his honors and his valiant parts Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate So that, dear lords, if I be left behind,
A moth of peace, and he go to the war, The rites for which I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall support By his dear absence. Let me go with him.
Let her have your voices. Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not To please the palate of my appetite;
Nor to comply with heat the young affects In me defunct—and proper satisfaction; But to be free and bounteous to her mind;
Be it as you shall privately determine, Either for her stay or going: the affair cries haste, And speed must answer't: you must hence tonight.
Tonight, my lord?
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