hearts of old gave hands, But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts. 

DESDEMONA. I cannot speak of this. Come now, your promise. 

OTHELLO. What promise, chuck? 

DESDEMONA. I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you. 

OTHELLO. I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me. Lend me thy handkerchief. 

DESDEMONA. Here, my lord. 

OTHELLO. That which I gave you. 

DESDEMONA. I have it not about me. 

OTHELLO. Not? 

DESDEMONA. No, faith, my lord. 

OTHELLO. That is a fault. That handkerchief Did an Egyptian to my mother give. She was a charmer, and could almost read The thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it, ’Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love. But if she lost it, Or made a gift of it, my father’s eye Should hold her loathed, and his spirits should hunt After new fancies: she, dying, gave it me, And bid me, when my fate would have me wive, To give it her. I did so; and take heed on’t, Make it a darling like your precious eye. To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition As nothing else could match. 

DESDEMONA. Is’t possible? 

OTHELLO. ’Tis true. There’s magic in the web of it. A sibyl, that had number’d in the world The sun to course two hundred compasses, In her prophetic fury sew’d the work; The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk, And it was dyed in mummy, which the skillful Conserv’d of maiden’s hearts. 

DESDEMONA. Indeed? Is’t true? 

OTHELLO. Most veritable, therefore look to ’t well. 

DESDEMONA. Then would to God that I had never seen ’t! 

OTHELLO. Ha? wherefore? 

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