Othello

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.

For she had eyes and chose me.

Men in rage strike those that wish them best.

The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.(Iago, Act II, scene iii)

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

I would not put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains.

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing; ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.

She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her that she did pity them

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Iago

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

Men should be what they seem.

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss, Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger: But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves! (Act 3, scene 3, 165–171)

Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Tis within ourselves that we are thus or thus

I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.

I hold my peace, sir? no; No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.

If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am

I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .

what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes

Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.

And what’s he then that says I play the villain?

O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!" - Cassio (Act II, Scene iii)