LITMIR.BIZ

        RODERIGO. Tush, never tell me! I take it much unkindly

          That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

          As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.

        IAGO. 'Sblood, but you will not hear me.

          If ever I did dream of such a matter,

          Abhor me.

        RODERIGO. 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,

          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 bumbast 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 Moorship's ancient.

        RODERIGO. 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 the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself

          Whether I in any just term am affined

          To love the Moor.

        RODERIGO. 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 knee-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 lined 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 complement 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.

        RODERIGO. 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 color.

        RODERIGO. 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.

        RODERIGO. 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. What is the reason of this terrible summons?

          What is the matter there?

        RODERIGO. Signior, is all your family within?

        IAGO. Are your doors lock'd?

        BRABANTIO. Why? Wherefore ask you this?

        IAGO. 'Zounds, sir, you're robb'd! For shame, put on your gown;

          Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;

          Even now, now,

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