1 Hang her, I do but say what she is.
2 Indeed, she is a most fresh and delicate creature.
3 By the world, I think my wife be honest, and think she is not.
4 I cannot believe that in her, she is full of most blessed condition.
5 When she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice.
6 Gone she is, And what's to come of my despised time, Is naught but bitterness.
7 And heaven defend your good souls that you think I will your serious and great business scant For she is with me.
8 She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested.
9 I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other, Remove your thought, it doth abuse your bosom.
10 I am about it, but indeed, my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze, It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours, And thus she is deliver'd.
11 Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame: he hath not yet made wanton the night with her; and she is sport for Jove.