The smile was wiped from Roderigo's face completely as Iago gave his much-too-unnecessary answer, replaced by a horrified anguish. "Must you say things like that?!" he cried, clenching his fingers into trembling fists. "Believe me, I know well enough she is not mine without you grinding it into my face like a handful of dirt!"
Wonderful, and now Roderigo was thinking of it. Poor, sweet Desdemona! Shackled in blindness, enamored of a dark-skinned devil who no more deserved the lady than Roderigo deserved to be shunned. Desdemona had a fair face, a gentle figure-and she wasted her beauty on utter ugliness. Roderigo felt a bout of despair overtake him, and it surfaced in his person as a sort of frantic indignance.
"'Fruits of his love'-ha! I think you mean to mock me with that," he snapped, but even as he spoke the wretched words they sapped him of his resolve; as he thought once more of Desdemona with her dark lord (he could not bear it, to call him her 'husband'), his heart became heavy with discouragement. A shudder ran through him, and he felt tears come to his eyes, prompted by the frustration he had encountered during the day coupled with his present misery.
"And if so, well-shot, for you have hit your mark," he moped, his boldness leaving him. He had no strength to retaliate against Iago's cruel remarks. "O, Desdemona!" He dropped to his knees as though he spoke to some goddess. "Cursed fate that gave you to the Moor…!" His head sank down to touch the filthy streets as he lamented.