OTH E L L 0.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Venice. A Street.

Enter RODERIGO, and IAGO.

Rod. TUSH,

never tell me, I take it much unkindly,

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse, As if the strings were thine, should'st know

of this.

Iago. 'Sblood, but you will not hear me if

ever

I did dream of such a matter, abhor me.

Rod. Thou told'st

me,

thou didst hold him

Three great

in thy hate.

Iago. Despise me, if I do not.

ones of the city,

In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Oft capp'd to him;

man,

and, by the faith of

I know my price, I am worth no worse

place:

a

But he, as loving his own pride and purposes,
Evades them, with a bombast circumstance,
Horribly stuff'd with epithets of war;

And, in conclusion, nonsuits my mediators;
For, certes, says he, I have already
Chosen my officer. And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,

A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife;
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows

More than a spinster; unless the bookish theorick,

Wherein the toged consuls can propose

As masterly as he: mere prattle, without prac

tice,

Is all his soldiership. But, he, sir, had the

election:
of whom his
proof,

At Rhodes, at Cyprus; and on other grounds Christian and heathen,

calm'd

must be be-lee'd and

By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster;
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,
And I, (God blefs the mark!) his Moor- ship's

ancient.

Rod. By heaven, I rather would have been

his hangman.

Iago. But there's no remedy, 'tis the curse of service;

Preferment goes by letter, and affection,
Not by the old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge

yourself,

Whether I in any just term am affin'd

To love the Moor.

Rod I would not follow him then.

Iago. O, sir, content you;

I follow him to serve my turn upon him:
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For nought but provender; and, when he's old,
on cashier'd;

Whip me such honest knaves: Others there

are,,

Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty, Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves; And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,

Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lin'd their coats,

Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;

And such a one do I profefs myself.

For, sir,

It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end:

For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart

In compliment extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For doves to peck at: I am not what I am.
Rod. What a full fortune does the thick lips

owe,

If he can carry't thus!

Iago. Call up her father,

Rouse him: make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kins

men,

And, though he in a fertile climate dwell, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,

Yet throw such changes of vexation on't,
As it may lose some colour.

Rod. Here is her father's house; I'll call

aloud.

Iago. Do; with like timorous accent, and dire yell,

As when, by night and negligence, the fire
Is spy'd in populous cities..

Rod. What ho! Brabantio! signior Brabantio,

ho!

Iago. Awake! what, ho! Brabantio! thieves! thieves thieves!

Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags!

Thieves! thieves!

BRABANTIO, above, at a window.

Bra. What is the reason of this terrible summons?

What is the matter there?'

Rod. Signior, is all your family within?
Iago. Are your doors lock'd?

Bra.

Bra. Why, wherefore ask you this? Iago. 'Zounds, sir, you are robb'd; for shame, put on your gown;

Your heart is hurst, you have lost half your

soul;

Even now, very now, an old black ram

Is tupping your white ewe.

Arise, arise;

Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,

Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you: Arise, I say.

Bra. What, have you lost your wits?

Rod. Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

Bra. Not I; What are you?

Rod. My name is

Roderigo.

Bra. The worse welcome:

I have charg'd thee, not to haunt about my doors:

In honest plainness thou hast heard me say,
My daughter is not for thee; and now, in mad-

2

nefs,

Being full of supper, and distempering draughts, Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come

To start my quiet.

Rod. Sir, sir, sir,

Bra. But thou must needs be sure,

My spirit, and my place, have in them power To make this bitter to thee.

Bra. What tell'st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;

My house is not a grange.

Rod. Most grave Brabantio,

In simple and pure soul I come to you.

Iago. 'Zounds, sir, you are one of those, that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because