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THE MOOR OF VENICE.
ACT I. SCENE I.
Venice. A Street.
Enter RODERIGO and Iaco.
unkindly, That thou, Iago, who hast had my parse, 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. Rod. Thou told'st me, thou did'st hold him
in thy hate. Iago. Despise me, if I do not.
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 wari And, in conclusion, nonsuits
My mediators ; for, certes, says he,
Rod. I would not follow him then.
Iago. O, Sir, content you;
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: Oihers 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 bomage : these fellows have some
soul; And soch a one do I profess myself. For, Sir, It is as sure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be lago: In following him, I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and dutý, But seeming so, for my peculiar end: For wheu iny outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart lo compliment extern ; 'tis not long after But I will wear my heart rpon 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's
bup her father, Rouse him : make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets; incepse her kinsmen, And, though he in a fertile climáte dwell, Plague bim 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 timorons accent, and dire yell
As when", by night and negligence, the fire
ho! Iago. Awake! what, ho! Brabantio ! thieves !
thieves ! thieves ! Look to your house, your daughter, and
þags! Thieves! thieves !
BRABANTIO, above, at a window. Bra. What is the reason of this terrible sum
mons ? What is the matter there?
Rod. Signior , is all your family within ?,
put on your gowv;
Bra. What, have you lost your wits?
voice? Bra. Not I; What are you? Rod. My name is · Roderigo.
Bra. 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,
Rod. Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir,
Bra. But thou must needs be sure,
Rod. Patience, good Sir.
Rod. Most grave Brabantio,
lago. 'Zounds, Sir, yon are one of those, that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service, you think we are ruffians : You'll have your danghter cover'd with a Barbary horse; you'll have your nepuews neigh ío you : you'll have coursers for cousins, and gennets for germans.
Bra. What profane wretch art thou ?
lago. 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.
Tf't be your pleasure, and most wise consent,