Othello

Something, sure, of state,

Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practise 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; For let our finger ache, and it indues

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,

I was, unhandsome warrior as I am,

Arraigning his unkindness with my soul;

But now I find I had suborn'd the witness,

And he's indicted falsely.

But I do think it is their husbands' faults

If wives do fall: say that they slack their duties, And pour our treasures into foreign laps,

Or else break out in peevish jealousies,

Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us, Or scant our former having in despite;

Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace, Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell And have their palates both for sweet and sour,

As husbands have. What is it that they do

When they change us for others? Is it sport?

I think it is: and doth affection breed it?

I think it doth: is't frailty that thus errs?

It is so too: and have not we affections, Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have? Then let them use us well: else let them know, The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.