And but my noble Moor Is true of mind and made of no such baseness As jealous creatures are, it were enough To put him to ill thinking. (III.iv.)
The hearts of old gave hands, But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts. (III.iv.)
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 gift of it, my father’s eye Should hold her loathèd and his spirits should hunt After new fancies. (III.iv.)
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. (III.iv.)
