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It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! It is the cause.
Yet I'll not shed her blood; nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, and smooth as monumental alabaster.
Who's there? Othello?
Ay, Desdemona.
Will you come to bed, my lord?
Have you pray'd tonight, Desdemona?
Ay, my lord.
If you bethink yourself of any crime unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, solicit for it straight.
Alas, my lord, what do you mean by that?
Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by. I would not kill thy unprepared spirit.
Talk you of killing?
Ay, I do.
Then heaven have mercy on me!
Amen, with all my heart!
If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.
Hum!
And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then when your eyes roll so.
Think on thy sins.
They are loves I bear to you.
Ay, and for that thou diest.
That death's unnatural that kills for loving. Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?
Peace, and be still!
I will so. What's the matter?
That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee, thou gavest to Cassio.
No, by my life and soul! Send for the man, and ask him.
Sweet soul, take heed, take heed of perjury; thou art on thy deathbed.