No More Learning

No, let me not.
DESDEMONA. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst
praise me?
IAGO. O gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing if not critical.
DESDEMONA. Come on, assay- There's one gone to the harbor?
IAGO. Ay, madam.
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 frieze;
It plucks out brains and all. But my Muse labors,
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 praised! 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.