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To you, Iago.
What is hate?
Thou told’st me thou didst hold him in thy hate
Framed by hate. Hate for the more.
Hate for the moor
And thou said
Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains
Pains from thy jealously
Thy plans only to backfire
Backfire into hell thou wish to soon be in
Pity for the fate thou shall succumb
Pity to you, Iago.
Or out upon you what restraint and grievance
Restraint in the words of thy false claims
To the moor
To the moor who let him do his spite
The moor who fell into thy trap
with his dearest Desdemona
Blush’d at herself; and she, in spite of nature
Chose the more who caused thy jealousy
Thy jealousy and the end in thy game
I hate the Moor: thou said
Thine hath no reason.
Thou say let us be conjunctive in our revenge
Revenge on the moor out of hate
But for my – thy – sport and profit.
Then sir, would he grip and wring my hand
Thy hand that is stained in sin
Holding in place thy plan
Holding up one.
One is too poor, two weak for my revenge.
My revenge on you, Iago
Till that a capable and wide revenge.
Revenge until thy wish for death
What is hate, Iago?
Thy know hate?
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught.
Thy know well.
Time passes Iago
Dost thou repent?
And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns?
Dost thou regret hating the moor?
Yet have we some revenge, dearest Iago.