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.)