self. Ere I would say, I would drown myself for the love of a Guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. Rod. What should I do? I confefs, it is my shame to be so fond; but it is not in virtue to amend it. Iago. Virtue? a fig! 'tis in ourselves, that we are thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens; to the which, our wills are, gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettice; set byssop, and weed up thyme; supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many; either to have it steril with idleness, or manured with industry; why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and basenefs of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions: But we have reason, to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect, or scyon. Rod. It cannot be. Iago. It is merely a lust of the blood, and a permission of the will. Come, be a man: Drown thyself? drown cats, and blind puppies. I have profefs'd me thy friend, and I confefs me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughnefs; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow these wars; defeat thy favour with an usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be, that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor, put money in thy purse; nor he his to her it was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration; money in thy purse. These Moors are change put but able in their wills; fill thy purse with money: the food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must change for youth: when she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice. -She must have change, she must: therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst: If sanctimony and a frail vow, betwixt an erring Barbarian and a super-subtle Venetian, be not too hard for my wits, and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! it is clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hang'd in compassing thy joy, than to be drown'd and go without her. 1 Rod. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue? Iago. Thou art sure of me; Go, make money: I have told thee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, I hate the Moor: My cause is hearted; thine hath no lefs reason: Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, and me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time, which will be delivered. Traverse; go; provide thy money. We will have more of this to-mor row. Adieu. Rod. Where shall we meet i' the morning? Rod. I'll be with thee betimes. Iago. Go to; farewel. Do you hear, Roderigo? Rod. What say you? Iago. No more of drowning, do you hear. Jago. Go to; farewel: put money enough in your purse. [Exit ROPERIGO. Thus do I ever make my fool my purse: For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane, see: After some time, to abuse Othello's ear, That thinks men honest, that but seem to be so; As asses are. I have't; it is engender'd: Hell and night Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light, [Exit. АСТ A C T. II. SCENE I. A Sea-port town in Cyprus. 4 Platform. Enter MONTANO, and two Gentlemen, Mon. What from the cape can you discern at sea? 1. Gent. Nothing at all: it is a high-wrought flood; I cannot, 'twixt the haven and the main, Mon. Methinks, the wind hath spoke aloud at land; A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements: What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can hold the mortice? what shall we hear of this? 2. Gent. A segregation of the Turkish fleet: For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chiding billow seems to pelt the clouds; The wind-shak'd surge, with high and monstrous main, Seems to cast water on the burning bear,' On the enchafed flood. Mon. If that the Turkish fleet Be not inshelter'd and embay'd, they are drown'd; It is impossible they bear it out. Enter a third Gentleman. 3. Gent. News, lords! our wars are done; The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks, That their designment halts: A noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet. Mon. How is this true? 3. Gent. The ship is here put in, A Veronesé: Michael Cassio, Lieutenant to the warlike Moor, Othello, our. 3. Gent. But this same Cassio, speak of comfort, Touching the Turkish lofs, sadly, parted though he yet he looks And prays the Moor be safe; for they were |