UKE of Venice,
Brabantio, a noble Venetian.
Gratiano, Brother to Brabantio.
Lodovico, Kinfman to Brabantio and Gratiano. Othello, the Moor, General for the Venetians in Cyprus.
Caffio, his Lieutenant-General.
Jago, Standard-bearer to Othello.
Rodorigo, a foolish Gentleman, in Love with Defdemona.
Montano, the Moor's Predeceffor in the Government of Cyprus.
Clown, Servant to the Moor.
Desdemona, Daughter to Brabantio, and Wife to
Emilia, Wife to Jago.
Bianca, a Curtezan, Miftrefs to Caffio.
Officers, Gentlemen, Meffengers, Muficians, and Attendants.
SCENE for the First Alt in Venice; during the rest of the Play in Cyprus.
ACTI. SCENE I.
SCENE Venice.
Enter Rodorigo and Jago.
RODORIGO.
EVER tell me, I take it very unkindly, That thou, Jago, who haft had my Purse, As if the Strings were thine,
Shouldft know of this.
Jago. But you'll not hear me.
If ever I did dream of fuch a Matter, ab
Rod. Thou toldft me, thou didst hold him in thy hate.
If I do not. Three great ones of the City, In perfonal fuit to make me his Lieutenant, Oft' Cap't to him: And by the faith of Man I know my Price, I am worth no worse a Place. VOL. V. I inż
But he, as loving his own Pride and Purposes, Evades them, with a bumbaft Circumftance, Horribly stuft with Epithets of War; Non-fuits my Mediators; for certes, fays he, I have already chofe my Officer. And what was he? Forfooth, a great Arithmetician,
One Michael Caffio, a Florentine,
A Fellow almoft damn'd in a fair Wife, That never fet a Squadron in the Field, Nor the divifion of a Battel knows
More than a Spinfter, unless the Bookish Theorick, Wherein the Tongued Confuls can propose As mafterly as he; meer prattle, without practice, Is all his Soldierfhip. But he, Sir, had th' Election; And I, of whom his Eyes had feen the proof At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on others Grounds Chriftian, and Heathen, must be be-lee'd, and calm'd By Debitor, and Creditor. This Counter-cafter, He, in good time, muft his Lieutenant be,
And I, Sir, blefs the mark, his Moor-fhip's Ancient. Rod. By Heav'n, I rather would have been his Hangman. Jago. Why there's no remedy, 'tis the curfe of Service; Preferment goes by Letter, and Affection,
And not by old gradation, where each fecond Stood Heir to th' firft. Now, Sir, be Judge your self, Whether I in any juft term am Affin'd
To love the Moor?
Rod. I would not follow him then. Jago. O, Sir, content you;
I follow him to ferve my turn upon him. We cannot all be Mafters, nor all Masters Cannot be truly follow'd. You fhall mark Many a dutious and knee-crooking Knave, That, doting on his own obfequious Bondage, Wears out his time, much like his Master's Afs,
For nought but Provender, and when he's old, Cafheer'd; Whip me fuch honeft Knaves. Others there are Who trimm'd in Forms, and Vifages of Duty, Keep yet their Hearts attending on themselves; And throwing but fhows of Service on their Lords,
Do well thrive by them; and when they have lin❜d their (Coats,
Do themselves Homage. Thefe Fellows have fome Soul, And fuch a one do I profefs my felf. For, Sir, It is as fure as you are Rodorigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Jago: In following him, I follow but my felf. Heav'n is my Judge, not I, for Love and Duty, But feeming fo, for my peculiar end:
For when my outward Action doth demonstrate The native Act and Figure of my Heart In Complement extern, 'tis not long after But I will wear my Heart upon my Sleeve, For Daws 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 ?
Jago. Call up her Father,
Roufe him, make after him, poifon his Delight. Proclaim him in the Streets, incenfe her Kinfmen, And tho' he in a fertile Climate dwell,
Plague him with Flies: Tho' that his Joy be Joy, Yet throw fuch Chances of Vexation on't, As it may lofe fome Colour.
Rod. Here is her Father's House, I'll call aloud. Jago. Do, with like timorous Accent, and dire yell, As when, by Night and Negligence, the Fire Is fpied in populous Cities,
Rod. What ho! Brabantio! Signior Brabantio! ho! Jago. Awake! what ho! Brabantio! Thieves, Thieves! Look to your Houfe, your Daughter, and your Bags; Thieves! Thieves !
Bra. What is the reafon of this terrible Summons? What is the Matter there?
Rod. Signior, is all your Family within?
Jago. Are your Doors lock'd?
Bra. Why? wherefore ask you this?
Jago. Sir, you're robb'd; for fhame put on your Gown,
Your Heart is burft, you have loft half Even now, very now, an old black Ram Is Tupping your white Ewe. Arife, arise,
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