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A C Τ Ι.

-SCENE 1. Venice. A Street.



, , 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,
“I have already chose my officer.”
And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,
(A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wise,)
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,
Wherein the tongued consuls can propose
As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practice,
Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had th' election;
And I, - of whom his eyes had seen the proof,
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds,
Christian and heathen, — must be be-lee'd and calm’d
By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster;
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be;
And I, (God bless the mark!) his Moor-ship's an-

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,
For naught but provender; and when he's old, cash-

ier'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 shews of service on their lords, Do well thrive by them; and when they have lin'd

their coats,
Do themselves homage : these fellows have

And such a one do I profess 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 scoming 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 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 !

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
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 ! Thieves ! thieves !

Enter BRABANTIO, above, at a window. Brabantio. 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?

Why? wherefore ask you this? Iago. 'Zounds, sir! y'are robb’d; for shame, put

on your gown;
Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul:
Even now, 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.

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.

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,
Being full of supper and distempering draughts,
Upon malicious bravery dost thou come
To start my quiet.

Rod. Sir, sir, sir,

But thou must needs be sure,
My spirit and my place have in them power
To make this bitter to thee.

Patience, good sir. Bra. What tell’st thou me of robbing? this is

My house is not à grange.

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.
Bra. This thou shalt answer: I know thee, Rod-

erigo. Rod. Sir, I will answer any thing. But I beseech

If’t be your pleasure and most wise consent,
(As partly, I find, it is) that your fair daughter,
At this odd-even and dull watch o'th' night,
Transported with no worse nor better guard,
But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,
To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor, -
If this be known to you, and your allowance,
We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs ;

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