Iago. Some wine, ho!

'And let me the canakin clink, clink;

[sings.

And let me the canakin clink :

A soldier's a man;

A life's but a span;

Why then let a soldier drink.'

Some wine, boys!

[wine brought in.

Cas. Fore heaven, an excellent song.

Iago. I learned it in England, where, indeed, they are most potent in potting: your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander,-drink, ho!-are nothing to your English.

Cas. Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking?

Iago. Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit, ere the next pottle can be filled.

Cas. To the health of our general.

Mon. I am for it, lieutenant; and I'll do you justice.

Iago. O sweet England!

'King Stephen was a worthy peer; 1

His breeches cost him but a crown:
He held them sixpence all too dear;
With that he call'd the tailor lowu.

He was a wight of high renown,

And thou art but of low degree:
'Tis pride that pulls the country down;
Then take thine auld cloak about thee.'

Some wine, ho!

Cas. Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other.

Iago. Will you hear it again?

Cas. No; for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things.-Well, Heaven 's above all; and there be souls that must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.

Iago. It's true, good lieutenant.

Cas. For mine own part,-no offence to the general, nor any man of quality,-I hope to be saved.

Iago. And so do I too, lieutenant.

Cas. Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let's have no more of this; let's to our affairs.-Forgive us our sins!—Gentlemen, let's look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk: this is my ancient; this is my right hand, and this is my left hand :-I am not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and speak well enough.

All. Excellent well.

Cas. Why, very well, then you must not think then that I am drunk.

[Exit. Mon. To the platform, masters; come, let's set the watch.

Iago. You see this fellow, that is gone before: He is a soldier, fit to stand by Cæsar,

And give direction; and do but see his vice:
'Tis to his virtue a just equinox,

The one as long as the other: 'tis pity of him.
I fear, the trust Othello puts him in,

On some odd time of his infirmity,

Will shake this island.

Mon.

But is he often thus ?

Iago. 'Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep: He'll watch the horologe a double set,1

If drink rock not his cradle.

Mon.

It were well,

The general were put in mind of it.

Perhaps, he sees it not; or his good nature
Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio,
And looks not on his evils: is not this true?

Enter RODERIGO.

Iago. How now, Roderigo?

I pray you, after the lieutenant; go.

[aside.

[Exit Roderigo.

Mon. And 'tis great pity, that the noble Moor Should hazard such a place, as his own second, With one of an ingraft infirmity:

It were an honest action, to say

So to the Moor.

1 i. e. he will keep awake while the clock strikes two rounds, or four and twenty hours

Iago.

Not I, for this fair island:

I do love Cassio well; and would do much

To cure him of this evil. But, hark! what noise!

[cry within, Help! help!'

Re-enter CASSIO, driving in ROderigo.

Cas. You rogue! you rascal!

Mon.

What's the matter, lieutenant?

Cas. A knave!-teach me my duty!

I'll beat the knave into a twiggen 1 bottle.

Iago. Away, I say! go out, and cry—a mutiny.
[aside to Roderigo, who goes out,

Nay, good lieutenant;-alas, gentlemen ;-
Help, ho!-Lieutenant,-sir,-Montano,—sir ;-
Help, masters!—Here's a goodly watch, indeed!
[bell rings.

Who's that that rings the bell?-Diablo, ho!

Come, come, you 're drunk,

[they fight.

1 Wicker.

The town will rise: God's will, lieutenant! hold; You will be shamed for ever.

Enter OTHELLO and Attendants.

Oth.

What is the matter here?

Mon. Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to the

death.

Oth. Hold, for your lives.

Iago. Hold, hold, lieutenant;-sir;-Montano ;gentlemen ;

Have you forgot all sense of place and duty? Hold, hold! the general speaks to you; hold, for shame!

Oth. Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth

this?

Are we turn'd Turks; and to ourselves do that,
Which Heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?

For christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl:
He that stirs next to carve forth his own rage,
Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.—
Silence that dreadful bell; it frights the isle
From her propriety.-What is the matter, mas-

ters?

Honest Iago, that look'st dead with grieving,
Speak, who began this? on thy love, I charge thee.
Iago. I do not know ;-friends all but now, even

now,

In quarter,' and in terms like bride and groom

1 On our station.