ROD.
Tush, never tell me;1 I take it much unkindly
That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse
As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.
IAGO.
âSblood, but you will not hear me:
If ever I did dream of such a matter,
Abhor me.
ROD. Thou toldâst me thou didst hold him in thy hate.
IAGO.
Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city,
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Off-cappâd to2 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 stuffâd with epithets of war;
And, in conclusion,
Nonsuits3 my mediators; for, âCertes,â says he,
âI have already chose my officer.â
And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,
A fellow almost damnâd in a fair wife;
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,
Wherein the togged4 consuls can propose
As masterly as he: mere prattle without practice
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, must be be-leeâd5 and calmâd
By debitor and creditor: this counter-caster,6
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,
AndI â God bless the mark! â his Moorshipâs ancient.7
ROD.
By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.
IAGO.
Why, there âs no remedy; ât is the curse of service,
Preferment goes by letter and affection,
And not by old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself
Whether I in any just term am affined8
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 followâd. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That doting on his own obsequious bondage
Wears out his time, much like his masterâs ass,
For nought but provender,9 and when he âs old, cashierâd:
Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are
Who, trimmâd 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 lined 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
In compliment extern,10 ât is 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 ât thus!
IAGO.
Call up her father,11
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 ât
As it may lose some colour.
ROD.
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