Venice. A Street.

Enter RODERIGO and Iaco.
Rod. Tush, never tell me, I take it much

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.

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 wari 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 dañp'a in a fair wife;
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a balile knows
More than a spinster ;, unless the bookish theorick,
Wherein the toged consuls can propose
As masterly as be: mere pratile, 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 beatben, must be be-lee'd and

By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster;
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,
And I, (God bless the mark !) bis Moor-ship's

Rod. By heaven, I rather would have been his

Iago. But there's no rèmedy, 'tis the curse of

Preferment goes by Jetter, and affection;
Not by the old gradation, where each second
Slood heir to the first. Now, Sir, he judge yourself,
Whether I in any just term. am affin's
To love the Moor.

Rod. I would not follow him then.

Iago. O, Sir, content you;
I follow him to serve my turn upon bim:
We cannot all be masters, 'nor all masters
Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall inarš
Mavy a duteous and knee-crooking kpave,

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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
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


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 ?,
Jago. Are your doors lock'd ?
Bra. Why? wherefore ask you this?
Iago. 'Zounds, Sir, you are robb’d; for shame,

put on your gowv;
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 graudsire of you;
Arise, I say.

Bra. What, have you lost your wits?
Rod. Most reverend Sigpior, do you know my

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,

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

Rod. Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir,

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

Rod. Patience, good Sir.
Bra. What tell'st thou me of robbing? this is

Venice ;
My house is not a grange.

Rod. Most grave Brabantio,
In simple aud pure soul I come to you.'

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.
Jago. You are — a senator.
Bra. This thou shalt answer; I know thee,

Rod. Sir, I will answer any thing. But I be-

seech you,

Tf't be your pleasure, and most wise consent,
(As parily, I find, it is,) that your fair daughter,
At this odd-even and dull watch o'the night,
Transported with no worse nor heller guard,
But with a knave of common bire, a gondolier,
To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor,--

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