DESDEMONA: I hope my noble lord esteems me honest. OTHELLO: Oh, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born! DESDEMONA: Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed? OTHELLO: Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write “whore” upon?