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 th' election;
And I,
of whom his eyes had seen the proof,
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds,
Christian and heathen,

must be be-lee'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 hangman. Iago. But there's no remedy: 't is the curse of service, Preferment goes by letter, and affection,

Not by the old gradation, where each second

Stood heir t' the first. Now, Sir, be judge yourself,
Whether I in any just term am affin'd

To love the Moor.

Rod.
Iago.

I would not follow him, then.

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 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, 't is 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!

Bra.

Enter BRABANTIO, above, at a Window.
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, 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.
Arise, I say.

Bra.

What! have you lost your wits?

Rod. Most reverend signior, 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,
Being full of supper and distempering draughts,
Upon malicious bravery dost thou come

To start my quiet.

Rod. Sir, Sir, Sir,

Bra.

My spirit, and my place, have in them power

To make this bitter to thee.

Rod.

But thou must needs be sure,

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 and pure soul I come to you.

Iago. 'Zounds, Sir! you are one of those, that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service, and you think we are ruffians, you'll have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse: you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have coursers for cousins, and gennets for germans.

Bra. What profane wretch art thou?

Iago. I am one, Sir, that comes to tell you, your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

Bra.
Iago.

Bra. This thou shalt answer: I know thee, Roderigo.

Rod. Sir, I will answer any thing. But I beseech you,

If 't be your pleasure, and most wise consent,

(As partly, I find, it is) that your fair daughter,
At this odd-even and dull watch o' the night,
Transported with no worse nor better guard,
But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,
To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor,
If this be known to you, and your allowance,
We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs;
But if you know not this, my manners tell me,
We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe,
That from the sense of all civility,

I thus would play and trifle with your reverence:
Your daughter, if you have not given her leave,
I say again, hath made a gross revolt,

Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes,
In an extravagant and wheeling stranger,

Of here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself:
If she be in her chamber, or your house,

Let loose on me the justice of the state
For thus deluding you.

Strike on the tinder, ho!

call up all my people!

This accident is not unlike my dream;

Belief of it oppresses me already.

Light, I say! light!

[Exit from above.

Iago.

Farewell, for I must leave you:
It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place,
To be produc'd (as if I stay I shall)

Against the Moor: for, I do know, the state,
However this may gall him with some check,
Cannot with safety cast him: for he 's embark'd
With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,
(Which even now stand in act) that, for their souls,
Another of his fathom they have none,
To lead their business: in which regard,
Though I do hate him as I do hell pains,
Yet for necessity of present life,

I must show out a flag and sign of love,

Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him,

Lead to the Sagittary the raised search;

And there will I be with him. So, farewell.

Enter BRABANTIO, and Servants with Torches.

Bra. It is too true an evil: gone she is;

And what's to come of my despised time,
Is nought but bitterness.

Now, Roderigo,
unhappy girl!

Where didst thou see her?-O,

With the Moor, say'st thou? Who would be a father?
How didst thou know 't was she?-O! thou deceiv'st me
What said she to you? Get more tapers!

Past thought.

Raise all my kindred!

Rod. Truly, I think, they are.

[Exit.

Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters' minds
By what you see them act. Are there not charms,

-

By which the property of youth and maidhood

May be abus'd? Have you not read, Roderigo,
Of some such thing?

Rod.

Yes, Sir; I have, indeed.

Bra. Call up my brother. O, that you had had her!