Imatges de pÓgina
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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,
Abhor me.

А

VOL. XVII.

Rod. Thou told'st me, thou didst 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,
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

a

а

man,

Iago. But there's no remedy, 'tis the curse of service; Preferment goes by letter, and affection,

him :

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 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,
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 ! 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:

.

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