Othello. William Shakespeare

Evades them, with a bumbast 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,

       But seeming so for my peculiar end:

       For when my outward action doth demónstrate

       The native act and figure of my heart

       In complement extern, ‘tis not long after

       But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve

       For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

       RODERIGO

       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 color.

       RODERIGO

       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.

       RODERIGO

       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!

       [Brabantio appears above at a window.]

       BRABANTIO

       What is the reason of this terrible summons?

       What is the matter there?

       RODERIGO

       Signior, is all your family within?

       IAGO

       Are your doors locked?

       BRABANTIO

       Why, wherefore ask you this?

       IAGO

       Zounds, sir, you’re 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.

       BRABANTIO

       What, have you lost your wits?

       RODERIGO

       Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

       BRABANTIO

       Not I; what are you?

       RODERIGO

       My name is Roderigo.

       BRABANTIO

       The worser welcome:

       I have charged 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.

       RODERIGO

       Sir, sir, sir,—

       BRABANTIO

       But thou must needs be sure

       My spirit and my place have in them power

       To make this bitter to thee.

       RODERIGO

       Patience, good sir.

       BRABANTIO

       What tell’st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;

       My house is not a grange.

       RODERIGO