Bra.
What is the reason of this terrible summons?
What is the matter there?

Rod.
Signior, is all your family within?

Iago.
Are all doors lock'd?

Bra.
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;
Ev'n now, ev'n 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 Rodorigo.

Bra.
The worse welcome;
I've charg'd thee not to haunt about my doors:
In honest plainness thou hast heard me say,
My daughter's not for thee. And now in madness,
Being full of supper and distemp'ring draughts,
Upon malicious bravery dost thou come
To start my quiet.

Rod.
Sir, Sir, Sir—

Bra.
But thou must needs be sure,
My spirit and my place have in their 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 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, you think we are ruffians; you'll have your daughter cover'd with a Barbary horse, you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have coursers for cousins, and gennets for germanes.

Bra.

What prophane 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.

Thou art a villain.

Iago.

You are a senator.

Bra.

This thou shalt answer. I know thee, Rodorigo.

Rod.
Sir, I will answer any thing. But I beseech you,
^{8 note}
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' th' night,
Transported with no worse nor better guard,
But with a knave of hire, a Gundalier,
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
To an extravagant and wheeling stranger,
Of here and every where; straight satisfie yourself.
If she be in her chamber, or your house,
Let loose on me the justice of the State
For thus deluding you.

Bra.
Strike on the tinder, ho!
Give me a taper;—call up all my people;—
This accident is not unlike my Dream,
Belief of it oppresses me already.
Light, I say, light!

Iago.
Farewel; for I must leave you.
It seems not meet, nor wholsome 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 ev'n now stand in act, that, for their souls,
Another of his fadom they have none,
To lead their business. In which regard,
Tho' I do hate him as I do hell's pains,
Yet, for necessity of present life,
I must shew out a flag and sign of love:

(Which is, indeed, but sign.) That you may surely find him,
Lead to the Sagittary the raised search;
And there will I be with him. So, farewel. [Exit.

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