Ill-fated Othello
Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.
Othello, 3. 3
O ill-starred wench!
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl!
Even like thy chastity.
Othello, 5. 2
