Othello, the Moor of Venice. William Shakespeare

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       William Shakespeare

      Othello, the Moor of Venice

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664124760

Table of Contents

       Dramatis Personæ

       SCENE: The First Act in Venice; during the rest of the Play at a Seaport in Cyprus.

       ACT I

       ACT II

       ACT III

       ACT IV

       ACT V

Dramatis Personæ

       Table of Contents

      DUKE OF VENICE

       BRABANTIO, a Senator of Venice and Desdemona’s father

       Other Senators

       GRATIANO, Brother to Brabantio

       LODOVICO, Kinsman to Brabantio

       OTHELLO, a noble Moor in the service of Venice

       CASSIO, his Lieutenant

       IAGO, his Ancient

       MONTANO, Othello’s predecessor in the government of Cyprus

       RODERIGO, a Venetian Gentleman

       CLOWN, Servant to Othello

      DESDEMONA, Daughter to Brabantio and Wife to Othello

       EMILIA, Wife to Iago

       BIANCA, Mistress to Cassio

      Officers, Gentlemen, Messenger, Musicians, Herald, Sailor, Attendants, &c.

SCENE: The First Act in Venice; during the rest of the Play at a Seaport in Cyprus.

       Table of Contents

ACT I

       Table of Contents

      SCENE I. Venice. A street.

      Enter Roderigo and Iago.

      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 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 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 affin’d

       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 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,