Rod.
Never tell me^{2 note}, 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^{3 note}:
If ever I did dream of such a matter, abhor me.

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

Iago.
Despite me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city,
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
^{4 note}Oft 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,
Non-suits my mediators; for, certes^{5 note}
, says he,
I have already chosen my officer.
And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician^{6 note},
One Michael Cassio^{7 note}, a Florentine,
A fellow almost damn'd ^{8 note}

That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows

More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric^{9 note},

^{1 note}

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,—^{2 note}

Rod.
By heaven, 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}

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,
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 demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
^{1 note}

Rod.
What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe^{3 note},
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,
^{4 note}

Rod.
What ho! Brabantio! signior Brabantio, ho!

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

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

Rod.
Signior, is all your family within?

Iago.
Are your doors lock'd^{5 note}?

Bra.
Why? wherefore ask you this?

Iago.
Sir, you are robb'd; for shame, put on your gown;
Your heart is burst^{6 note}, you have lost half your soul;

Even 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.

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—Roderigo.

Bra.
The worse welcome:
I have charg'd 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.

Rod.
Sir, sir, sir,—

Bra.
But thou must needs be sure,
My spirit, and my place, have in them 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^{7 note}

Rod.
Most grave Brabantio,
In simple and pure soul I come to you.

Iago.

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^{8 note}

Bra.

^{1 note}

Iago.

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you, ^{2 note}

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, Roderigo.

Rod.
Sir, I will answer any thing. But I beseech you,
[^{3 note}If't be your pleasure, and most wise consent,
(As partly, I find, it is) that your fair daughter,
At ^{4 note}