DESDEMONA.
I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise. —
Come, how wouldst thou praise me?
IAGO.
I am about it; but, indeed, my invention
Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize, —
It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours,
And thus she is deliver'd.
If she be fair and wise, — fairness and wit,
The one's for use, the other useth it.
DESDEMONA.
Well prais'd! How if she be black and witty?
IAGO.
If she be black, and thereto have a wit,
She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit.
DESDEMONA.
Worse and worse.
EMILIA.
How if fair and foolish?
IAGO.
She never yet was foolish that was fair;
For even her folly help'd her to an heir.
DESDEMONA.
These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i' the
alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that's foul
and foolish?
IAGO.
There's none so foul and foolish thereunto,
But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.
