OTHELLO - KEY QUOTES - ACT THREE SCENE THREE

Be thou, assur’d

good Cassio

Bounteous Madam,

Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio

If I do vow a friendhsip, I’ll perform it

To the last article. My lord shall never rest

His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift;

I’ll intermingle every thing he does

Thy solicitor shall rather die.

Than give thy cause away

Not now, sweet Desdemon;

some other time.

What! Michael Cassio,

That came a-wooing with you,

When I have spoke of you dispraisingly

Hath tane your part

I will deny thee nothing. Wheron, I do beseech thee, grant me this,

To leave me but a little to myself

Excellent

wretch

As if there were some

monster in his thought

Men should be

what they seem;

O beware, my lord, of jealousy:

It is the green -eyed monster which doth mock

For she had eyes

and chose me

I speak not yet of proof.

Look to your wife, observe her well

Dost thou

say so?

She did decieve her father,

marrying you;

But I do see you’re mov’d. I am to pray you not to strain my speech

To grisser issues nor to larger reach than to suspicion

Though that her jesses were 

my dear heart-strings,

Haply for I am black, and

have not these soft parts of conversation

O curse

of marriage

I had rather be a toad and live upon the vapour of a dungeon

Than keep a corner in the thing I love

My wayward husband hath a

hundred times

I nothing but to

please his fantasy.

To have a

You have a thing for me?

It is a common thing-

A good wench!

Give it me.

What sense had I of her

stolen hours of lust?

I had been happy if the general camp,

Pioneers and all, had tasted her sweet body

Villian. be sure thou prove my love a whore;

Be sure of it. Give me the ocular proof

O grace!

O heaven forgive me!

Her name, that was as fresh As Dian’s visage, is now

begrim'd and black As mine own face

Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on?

Behold her topp’d?

If she be false, O

then heaven mocks itself

I lay with Cassio

lately

spotted with

strawberries

Arise black vengeance, from thy

hollow cell!

O blood,

blood, blood

Like to the Pontic sea, whose icy current and complusive course

ne’er feels retiring ebb