MOOR. Well--well--well----

GIANETTINO. Dost thou mark me? Thou canst only fail here! (pointing to
his heart).

MOOR. Give yourself no concern.

GIANETTINO. And be sure to strike home----

MOOR. He shall have enough.

GIANETTINO (maliciously). That the poor count may not have long to
suffer.

MOOR. With your leave, sir, a word--at what weight do you estimate his
head?

GIANETTINO. What weight? A hundred sequins----

MOOR (blowing through his fingers). Poh! Light as a feather!

GIANETTINO. What art thou muttering?

MOOR. I was saying--it is light work.

GIANETTINO. That is thy concern. He is the very loadstone of sedition.
Mark me, sirrah! let thy blow be sure.

MOOR. But, sir,--I must fly to Venice immediately after the deed.