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THE TRAGEDY OF
OTHELLO, THE MOOR
A C Τ Ι.
-SCENE 1. Venice. A Street.
Enter RODERIGO and IAGO.
, , 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 nie. Rod. Thou told'st me thou did'st hold him in thy
hate. Iago. Despise me, if I do not.
Three great ones of the city, In personal suit to make me his lieutenant, Off-capp'd to him; and, by the faith of man, I know my price: I am worth no worse a place; 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,
cient.' Rod. By Heaven, I rather: would have been his
hangman Iago. Why, there's no remedy : 'tis the curse of
service, Preferment goes by letter and affection, And not by old gradation, where each second Stood heir to th' 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. 0, 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,
Others there are, Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty, Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves, And, throwing but shews of service on their lords, Do well thrive by them; and when they have lin'd
Rod. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe,
Call up her father ; Rouse him : make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets : incense her kinsmen; 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
As when, by night and negligence, the fire
Rod. What ho! Brabantio ! signior Brabantio, ho !
thieves ! [thieves !] Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags ! Thieves ! thieves !
Enter BRABANTIO, above, at a window. Brabantio. What is the reason of this terrible
Rod. Signior, is all your family within ?
Why? wherefore ask you this? Iago. 'Zounds, sir! y'are robb’d; for shame, put
on your gown;
What! have you lost your wits ?
The worse welcome :
Rod. Sir, sir, sir,
But thou must needs be sure,
Patience, good sir. Bra. What tell’st thou me of robbing? this is
Most grave Brabantio, In simple and püre 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 cover'd 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 årt 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. Thou art a villain.
You are a senator.
erigo. Rod. Sir, I will answer any thing. But I beseech