Desdemona: O, these men, these men!
Dost thou in conscience think,--tell me, Emilia,--
That there be women do abuse their husbands
In such gross kind?
Emilia: There be some such, no question
Desdemona: I do not think there is any such woman
Emilia: I do think it is their husbands’ faults
If wives do fall. Say that they slack their duties
And pour our treasures into foreign laps...
Let husbands know
Their wives have sense like them
Othello: Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted;
Thy bed, lust-stained, shall with lust’s blood be spotted
Iago: This is the night that either makes me, or fordoes me quite
Othello: It is the cause, it is the cause...I’ll not shed her blood
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow
And smooth as monumental alabaster –
Yet she must dies, else she’ll betray more men.
Put on the light, and then put out the light
Othello: O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break…