Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Iago. Robs me of that, which not enriches him,
Iago. And makes me poore indeed.
Oth. Oth.
Oth. Ile know thy Thoughts.
Iago. Iago.
Iago. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand,
Iago. Nor shall not, whil'st 'tis in my custodie.
Oth. Ha?
Iago. Oh, beware my Lord, of iealousie,
Iago. It is the greene‑ey'd Monster, which doth mocke
Iago. The meate it feeds on. That Cuckold liues in blisse,
Iago. Who certaine of his Fate, loues not his wronger:
Iago. But oh, what damned minutes els he ore,
Iago. Who dotes, yet doubts: Suspects, yet soundly loues?
Oth. O miserie.
Iago. Poore, and Content, is rich, and rich enough,