Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Des. Who, he? I thinke the Sun where he was borne,
Des. Drew all such humors from him.
Æmil. Æmil.
Æmil. Looke where he comes.
Æmil. Enter Othello.
Des. Des.
Des. I will not leaue him now, till Cassio be
Des. Call'd to him. How is't with you, my Lord?
Oth. Oth.
Oth. Well my good Lady. Oh hardnes to dissemble!
Oth. How do you, Desdemona?
Des. Well, my good Lord.
Oth. Giue me your hand.
Oth. This hand is moist, my Lady.
Des. It hath felt no age, nor knowne no sorrow.
Oth. This argues fruitfulnesse, and liberall heart: