Æmilia.
O behold!
The riches of the ship is come on shore:
You men of Cyprus, let her have your knees.
Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heav'n,
Before, behind thee, and on every hand
Enwheel thee round.
Des.
I thank you, valiant Cassio,
What tidings can you tell me of my lord?
Cas.
He is not yet arriv'd, nor know I aught
But that he's well, and will be shortly here.
Des.
O, but I fear—how lost you company?
Cas.
The great contention of the sea and skies
Parted our fellowship. But hark, a sail!
Within.]
A sail, a sail!
Gent.
They give this greeting to the Citadel:
This likewise is a friend.
Cas.
See for the news:
Good Ancient, you are welcome. Welcome, mistress,
[To Æmilia.
Let it not gall your patience, good Iago,
That I extend my manners. 'Tis my breeding,
That gives me this bold shew of courtesie.
Iago.
Sir, would she give you so much of her lips,
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,
-- 308 --
You'd have enough.
Des.
Alas! she has no speech.
Iago.
In faith, too much;
I find it still, when I have list to sleep;
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart,
And chides with thinking.
Æmil.
You have little cause to say so.
Iago.
Come on, come on; you're pictures out of doors,
Bells in your parlours, wild-cats in your kitchens,
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,
Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds!
Des.
O, fie upon thee, slanderer!
Iago.
Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk;
You rise to play, and go to bed to work.
Æmil.
You shall not write my praise.
Iago.
No, let me not.
Des.
What would'st thou write of me, if thou should'st praise me?
Iago.
O gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing, 2 noteif not critical.
Des.
Come, one assay. There's one gone to the harbour—
Iago.
Ay, Madam.
Des.
I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise;—
Come, how would'st thou praise me?
Iago.
I am about it; but, indeed, &wlquo;my invention
comes from my pate, as birdlime does from
freeze, it plucks out brains and all.&wrquo; But my muse
labours, and thus she is delivered.
If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,
The one's for use, the other useth it.
-- 309 --
Des.
Well prais'd; how if she be black and witty?
Iago.
If she be black, and thereto have a wit,
She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit.
Des.
Worse and worse.
Æmil.
How, if fair and foolish?
Iago.
She never yet was foolish, that was fair;
For even her folly helpt her to an heir.
Des.
These are old fond paradoxes, to make fools
laugh i' th' alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou
for her that's foul and foolish?
Iago.
There's none so foul and foolish thereunto,
But does foul pranks, which fair and wise ones do.
Des.
Oh heavy ignorance! thou praisest the worst
best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving
woman indeed? 3 noteone that in the authority of
her merit, did justly put on the vouch of very malice
itself?
&wlquo;Iago.
&wlquo;She that was ever fair, and never proud,
&wlquo;Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud;
&wlquo;Never lackt gold, and yet went never gay,
&wlquo;Fled from her wish, and yet said, now I may;
&wlquo;She that when anger'd, her revenge being nigh,
-- 310 --
&wlquo;Bad her wrong stay, and her displeasure fly;
4 note
She that in wisdom never was so frail
To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;
&wlquo;She that could think, and ne'er disclose her mind,
&wlquo;See suitors following, and not look behind;
She was a wight, (if ever such wight were)—
Des.
To do what?
Iago.
To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer.
Des.
O most lame and impotent conclusion! do not
learn of him, Æmilia, tho' he be thy husband. How
say you, Cassio, is he not a most 5 noteprofane and liberal
counsellor?
Cas.
He speaks home, Madam; you may relish
him more in the soldier, than in the scholar.
Iago. [Aside.]
He takes her by the palm; ay, well
said—whisper—With as little a web as this, will I
ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her,
do—6 noteI will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You
say true, 'tis so, indeed.—If such tricks as these strip
you out of your lieutenancy, it had been better you
had not kiss'd your three fingers so oft, which now
again you are most apt to play the Sir in. Very
good—well kiss'd, and excellent courtesie—'tis so, indeed.
—Yet again—your fingers to your lips? 'would,
they were clister-pipes for your sake.
[Trumpet.
The Moor,—I know his trumpet.
Cas.
'Tis truly so.
Des.
Let's meet him, and receive him.
Cas.
Lo, where he comes!
-- 311 --
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
