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DESDEMONA

  Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio,
My advocation is not now in tune.
My lord is not my lord, nor should I know him
Were he in favor as in humor altered.
115So help me every spirit sanctified
As I have spoken for you all my best
And stood within the blank of his displeasure
For my free speech. You must awhile be patient.
What I can do I will, and more I will
120Than for myself I dare. Let that suffice you.

DESDEMONA

I’m sorry, dear Cassio, but now is not the right time to bring up your case. My husband’s not himself. If his face changed as much as his personality has, I wouldn’t recognize him. God knows I have done my best to argue for you, and made him angry at me for being so aggressive. You’ll just have to be patient for a little while. I’ll do what I can, more than I’d do for myself. Let that be enough for you.

IAGO

Is my lord angry?

IAGO

Is Othello angry?

EMILIA

  He went hence but now,
And certainly in strange unquietness.

EMILIA

He just left, clearly upset about something.

IAGO

Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon
When it hath blown his ranks into the air
125And, like the devil, from his very arm
Puffed his own brother—and is he angry?
Something of moment then, I will go meet him.
There’s matter in ’t indeed, if he be angry.

IAGO

Can he even get angry? It’s hard to believe. I’ve seen him stay calm when cannons were blowing his soldiers to bits, even killing his own brother without him batting an eyelid—is he really upset? It must be about something important. I’ll go talk to him. If he’s angry, there must be something seriously wrong.

DESDEMONA

I prithee, do so.

DESDEMONA

Please, do so.
Exit IAGO
IAGO exits.
  Something, sure, of state,
130Either from Venice, or some unhatched practice
Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,
Hath puddled his clear spirit, and in such cases
Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things,
Though great ones are their object. 'Tis even so,
135For let our finger ache and it endues
Our other healthful members even to that sense
Of pain. Nay, we must think men are not gods,
Nor of them look for such observances
As fit the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia,
140I was, unhandsome warrior as I am,
Arraigning his unkindness with my soul,
But now I find I had suborned the witness,
And he’s indicted falsely.
There must be some political news from Venice, or some dangerous plot here in Cyprus has ruined his good mood. Men always get angry about little things when they’re really worried about bigger ones. That’s the way it goes. When our finger hurts, it makes the rest of the body hurt too. We shouldn’t expect men to be perfect, or for them to be as polite as on the weddingday. Oh, Emilia, I’m so inexperienced that I thought he was being unkind, but actually I was judging him harshly.