Oft capp'd to him; and, by the faith of man, And, in conclusion, Nonsuits my mediators; "For certes," says he, One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife; More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric, As masterly as he mere prattle, without practice, must be be-lee'd and calm'd By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster: And I, (God bless the mark!) his Moor-ship's ancient. Rod. By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman. Iago. But there's no remedy: 't is the curse of service, Preferment goes by letter, and affection, Not by the old gradation, where each second Stood heir t' the first. Now, Sir, be judge yourself, To love the Moor. Rod. I would not follow him, then. O, Sir! content you; I follow him to serve my turn upon him: Wears out his time, much like his master's ass, For nought but provender; and when he 's old, cashier'd: Do well thrive by them; and when they have lin❜d their coats For, Sir, It is as sure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago : Rod. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, Iago. : Call up her father; Rouse him make after him, poison his delight, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, 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 spied 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! Bra. Enter BRABANTIO, above, at a Window. What is the matter there? Rod. Signior, is all your family within? Iago. Are your doors lock'd? Bra. Why? wherefore ask you this? Iago. 'Zounds, Sir! you are robb'd; for shame, put on your gown; Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul: 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 madness, To start my quiet. Rod. Sir, Sir, Sir, Bra. My spirit, and my place, have in them power To make this bitter to thee. Rod. But thou must needs be sure, Patience, good Sir. 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 we come to do you service, and you think we are ruffians, you'll have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse: you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have coursers for cousins, and gennets for germans. Bra. What profane wretch art thou? Iago. I am one, Sir, that comes to tell you, your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs. Bra. Bra. This thou shalt answer: I know thee, Roderigo. Rod. Sir, I will answer any thing. But I beseech you, If 't be your pleasure, and most wise consent, (As partly, I find, it is) that your fair daughter, I thus would play and trifle with your reverence: Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes, Of here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself: Let loose on me the justice of the state Strike on the tinder, ho! call up all my people! This accident is not unlike my dream; Belief of it oppresses me already. Light, I say! light! [Exit from above. Iago. Farewell, for I must leave you: Against the Moor: for, I do know, the state, I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him, Lead to the Sagittary the raised search; And there will I be with him. So, farewell. Enter BRABANTIO, and Servants with Torches. Bra. It is too true an evil: gone she is; And what's to come of my despised time, Now, Roderigo, Where didst thou see her?-O, With the Moor, say'st thou? Who would be a father? Past thought. Raise all my kindred! Rod. Truly, I think, they are. [Exit. Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters' minds - By which the property of youth and maidhood May be abus'd? Have you not read, Roderigo, Rod. Yes, Sir; I have, indeed. Bra. Call up my brother. O, that you had had her! |