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Enter RODERIGO and IAGO.
Rod. Tush, never tell me; I take it much unkindly,
That thou, lago,---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,
Rod. Thou told'st me, thou didst hold him in thy hate.
Iago. Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Oft 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 wife;
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 toged consuls can propose
As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practice,
Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election :
And I,---of whom his eyes had seen the proof,
At Rhodes, at Cyprus; and on other grounds,
Christian and heathen,---must be belee'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 ancient.
Rod. By heaven, I rather would have been his hang-
man. Iago. But there's no remedy, 'tis the curse of service; Preferment goes by letter, and affection,
Not by the old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the 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. O 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 knec-crooking knave, That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, Wears out his time, much like his master's ass, For nought but provender; and, when he's old, cashier'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 shows of service on their lords, Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lin’d their
coats, Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul; 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 seeming 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 !
Iago. 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,
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 ! Thieves ! thieves !
BRABANTIO, above, at a window.
Bra. 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 ?
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;
Even 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: