That Cassio loves her, I do well believe’t.That she loves him, ’tis apt and of great credit.
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,And I dare think he’ll prove to DesdemonaA most dear husband. Now, I do love her too,Not out of absolute lust—though peradventure
I shall get even with the moor
At least into a jealousy so strongThat judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do.
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I traceFor his quick hunting, stand the putting on,I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip
Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me. For making him egregiously an ass. And practicing upon his peace and quiet Even to madness. 'Tis here, but yet confused.Knavery’s plain face is never seen till used.