I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion;
I do repent me that I put it to you.
You would be satisfied?
And may; but how? How satisfied, my lord?
Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on?
Behold her topp’d?
It were a tedious difficulty, I think,
To bring them to that prospect; damn them then,
If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster
More than their own. What then? How then?
What shall I say? Where’s satisfaction?
It is impossible you should see this,
Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,
As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross
As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say,
If imputation and strong circumstances
Which lead directly to the door of truth
Will give you satisfaction, you might have’t.
I do not like the office;
But sith I am ent’red in this cause so far
(Prick’d to’t by foolish honesty and love),
I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately,
And being troubled with a raging tooth,
I could not sleep.
There are a kind of men, so loose of soul,
That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs;
One of this kind is Cassio.
In sleep I heard him say, “Sweet Desdemona,
Let us be wary, let us hide our loves”;
And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand;
Cry, “O sweet creature!” then kiss me hard,
As if he pluck’d up kisses by the roots
That grew upon my lips; then laid his leg
Over my thigh, and sigh’d, and kiss’d, and then
Cried, “Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!”
Nay, this was but his dream.
’Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream,
And this may help to thicken other proofs
That do demonstrate thinly.
Yet be wise; yet we see nothing done;
She may be honest yet.