Rodorigo.
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.
But you'll not hear me.
If ever I did dream of such a matter, abhor me.

Rod.
Thou toldst me, thou didst hold him in thy hate.

Iag.
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'm worth no worse a Place.
But he, as loving his own pride and purpose;
Evades them with a bombast circumstance,
Horribly stuft with epithets of war,
And, in conclusion,
Non-suits my mediators. “Certes, says he,
“I have already chose my officer.”
And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, ^{2 note}a Florentine,
A fellow almost damn'd ^{3 note}

That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster; but the bookish theorick,
^{4 note}

Rod.
By heav'n, I rather would have been his hangman.

Iago.
But there's no remedy; 'tis the curse of service;
Preferment goes ^{6 note}by letter and affection,
^{7 note}

Stood heir to th' first. Now, Sir, be judge yourself,
^{8 note}If I in any just term am affin'd
To love the Moor.

Rod.
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 ^{9 note}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,
Well thrive by them; and when they've lin'd their coats,
Do themselves homage. These folks have some soul,
And such a one do I profess myself.
It is as sure as you are Rodorigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago.
In following him, I follow but myself,
Heav'n is my judge!—Not I, for love and duty,
But, seeming so, for my peculiar end.

For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
^{1 note}In compliment extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve,
For daws to peck at. I'm not what I am.

Rod.
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 colour.

Rod.
Here is her father's house, I'll call aloud.

Iago.
Do, with like timorous accent, and dire yell,
^{2 note}

Rod.
What, ho! Brabantio! Signior Brabantio! ho.

Iago.
Awake! what, ho! Brabantio! ho! Thieves! thieves!
Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags.
Thieves! thieves!

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