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.
-- 503 --
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 ought
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 cittadel:
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 Jago,
That I extend my manners. 'Tis my breeding
That gives me this bold shew of courtesie.
Jago.
Sir, would she give you so much of her lips,
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,
You'd have enough.
Des.
Alas! she has no speech.
Jago.
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.
Jago.
Come on, come on; you're pictures out of doors,
Bells in your parlors, wild-cats in your kitchens,
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,
Players in your huswifery, and housewives in your beds.
Des.
Oh fie upon thee, slanderer.
Jago.
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.
-- 504 --
Jago.
No, let me not.
Des.
What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?
Jago.
Oh gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing, if not critical.
Des.
Come, one assay. There's one gone to the harbour—
Jago.
Ay, madam.
Des.
I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise;
Come, how wouldst thou praise me?
Jago.
I am about it, but indeed my invention comes from my
pate, as birdlime does from freeze, it plucks out brains and all.
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.
Des.
Well prais'd; how if she be black and witty?
Jago.
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?
Jago.
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?
Jago.
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?
one, that in the authority of her merit, did justly put on the
vouch of very malice it self?
-- 505 --
Jago.
She that was ever fair, and never proud,
Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud;
Never lackt gold, and yet went never gay,
Fled from her wish, and yet said now I may;
She that when anger'd, her revenge being nigh,
Bad her wrong stay, and her displeasure fly;
She that in wisdom never was so frail
To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;
She that could think, and ne'er disclose her mind,
See suitors following, and not look behind;
She was a wight, (if ever such wight were)
Des.
To do what?
Jago.
To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer.
Des.
Oh 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 profane and liberal counsellor?
Cas.
He speaks home, madam, you may relish him more in
the soldier, than in the scholar.
Jago. [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—I will † notegyve 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 nor 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 curtesie—'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!
-- 506 --
George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
