RODORIGO.
Never tell me, I take it very unkindly,
That thou, Jago, who hast had my Purse,
As if the Strings were thine,
Shouldst know of this.

Jago.
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.

Jago.
Despise me
If I do not. Three great ones of the City,
In personal suit to make me his Lieutenant,
Oft' Cap't 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 bumbast Circumstance,
Horribly stuft with Epithets of War;
Non-suits 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 Battel knows
More than a Spinster, unless the Bookish Theorick,
Wherein the Tongued Consuls can propose
As masterly as he; meer prattle, without practice,
Is all his Soldiership. But he, Sir, had th' Election;
And I, of whom his Eyes had seen the proof
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on others Grounds
Christian, and Heathen, must be be-lee'd, and calm'd
By Debitor, and Creditor. This Counter-caster,
He, in good time, must his Lieutenant be,
And I, Sir, bless the mark, his Moor-ship's Ancient.

Rod.
By Heav'n, I rather would have been his Hangman.

Jago.
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 th' first. Now, Sir, be Judge your self,
Whether I in any just term am Affin'd
To love the Moor?

Rod.
I would not follow him then.

Jago.
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 dutious 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, Casheer'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 my self. For, Sir,
It is as sure as you are Rodorigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Jago:
In following him, I follow but my self.
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
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.

Rod.
What a full Fortune does the thick-lips owe
If he can carry't thus?

Jago.
Call up her Father,
Rouse him, make after him, poison his Delight.
Proclaim him in the Streets, incense her Kinsmen,
And tho' he in a fertile Climate dwell,
Plague him with Flies: Tho' that his Joy be Joy,
Yet throw such Chances of Vexation on't,
As it may lose some Colour.

Rod.
Here is her Father's House, I'll call aloud.

Jago.
Do, with like timorous Accent, and dire yell,
As when, by Night and Negligence, the Fire
Is spied in populous Cities.

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

Jago.
Awake! what ho! Brabantio! Thieves, Thieves!
Look to your House, your Daughter, and your Bags;
Thieves! Thieves! Enter Brabantio above.

Bra.
What is the reason of this terrible Summons?
What is the Matter there?

Rod.
Signior, is all your Family within?

Jago.
Are your Doors lock'd?

Bra.
Why? wherefore ask you this?

Jago.
Sir, you're robb'd; for shame put on your Gown,
Your Heart is burst, 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 Rodorigo.

Bra.
The worser 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 Knavery, dost thou come
To start my quiet.

Rod.
Sir, Sir, Sir—

Bra.
But thou must needs be sure,
My Spirits 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.

Jago.

Sir, you are one of those that will not serve God, if the Devil bid you. Because we come to do you Service, and 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 Germans.

Bra.

What profane Wretch art thou?

Jago.

I am one, Sir, that comes to tell you, your Daughter and the Moor are making the Beast with two Backs.

Bra.
Thou art a Villain.

Jago.
You are a Senator.

Bra.
This thou shalt answer. I know thee, Rodorigo.

Rod.
Sir, I will answer any thing. But I beseech you,
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 or better guard,
But with a Knave of common 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 sawcy 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
In an extravagant, and wheeling Stranger,
Of here and every where; straight satisfie your self.
If she be in your 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!

Jago.
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 even now stands 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 shall surely find him,
Lead to the Sagittary the raised Search;
And there will I be with him. So farewel. [Exit. Enter Brabantio in his Night-gown, with Servants and Torches.

Bra.
It is too true an Evil. Gone she is,
And what's to come of my despised time,
Is naught but bitterness. Now, Rodorigo,
Where didst thou see her? Oh unhappy Girl!—

With the Moor saist thou? Who would be a Father?
How didst thou know 'twas she? Oh she deceives me
Past thought—what said she to you? Get more Tapers—
Raise all my Kindred—Are they Married, think you?

Rod.
Truly I think they are.

Bra.
Oh Heav'n! how got she out?
Oh Treason of my Blood!
Fathers, from hence trust not your Daughters Minds
By what you see them Act. Are there not Charms,
By which the property of Youth and Maidhood
May be abus'd? Have you not read, Rodorigo,
Of some such thing?

Rod.
Yes, Sir, I have indeed.

Bra.
Call up my Brothers; oh would you had had her!
Some one way, some another—Do you know
Where we may apprehend her, and the Moor?

Rod.
I think I can discover him, if you please
To get good Guard, and go along with me.

Bra.
Pray you lead on. At every House I'll call,
I may command at most, get Weapons, hoa!
And raise some special Officers of might:
On, good Rodorigo, I will deserve your Pains. [Exeunt.

Next section