OTHELLO.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Venice. A Street.

Enter RODERIGO and IAGO.

Roderigo.

USH, never tell me, I take it much unkindly,

TUSH,

That thou, Iago,-who hast had my purse,

As if the strings were thine,-should'st know of this.
Iago. 'Sblood, but you will not hear me :-

If ever I did dream of fuch a matter,

Abhor me.

Rod. Thou told'st me, thou didst hold him in thy hate. Lag. Despise me, if I do not.

city,

Three great ones of the

In personal fuit to make me his lieutenant,

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 conclufion, nonfuits
My mediators; for, certes, fays he,
I have already chofe my officer.
And what was he?

Forfooth, a great arithmetician,

One Michael Caffio, a Florentine,

A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife;
That never fet a squadron in the field,
Nor the divifion of a battle knows

More than a spinfter; unless the bookish theorick,
Wherein the toged confuls can propose

As masterly as he mere prattle, without practice,
Is all his foldiership. But, he, fir, had the election:
And I,-of whom his eyes had feen the proof,
At Rhodes, at Cyprus; and on other 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, (God bless the mark!) his Moor-ship's ancient.
Rod. By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.
Iago. But there's no remedy, 'tis the curfe of fervice;
Preferment goes by letter, and affection,

Not by the old gradation, where each fecond

Stood heir to the firft. Now, fir, be judge yourself,
Whether I in any just term am affin'd

To love the Moor.

Rod.

I would not follow him then.

Iago. O, fir, content you;

I follow him to serve my turn upon him :
We cannot all be masters, nor all mafters
Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That doting on his own obfequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's afs,
For nought but provender; and, when he's old, cashier'd;
Whip me fuch 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 fome foul;
And fuch a one do I profefs myself.

For, fir,

It is as fure 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 feeming fo, for my peculiar end :
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment 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!

Iago.

Call up her father,

Roufe him: make after him, poison his delight,
Proclaim him in the streets; incenfe her kinfmen,
And, though he in a fertile climate dwell,

Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,
Yet throw fuch changes of vexation on't,
As it may lofe fome colour.

Rod. Here is her father's houfe; I'll call aloud.
Iago. Do; with like timorous accent, and dire yell,
As when, by night and negligence, the fire

Is fpied in populous cities.

Rod. What ho! Brabantio! fignior Brabantio, ho!

Iago. Awake! what, ho! Brabantio! thieves! 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 fummons ?

What is the matter there?

Rod. Signior, is all your family within?

Iago. Are your doors lock'd?

Bra.

Why? wherefore ask you this?

lago. 'Zounds, fir, you are robb'd; for fhame put on

your gown;

Your heart is burst, you have lost half your foul;
Even now, very now, an old black ram
Is tupping your white ewe. Arife, arise;
Awake the fnorting citizens with the bell,
Or elfe the devil will make a grandfire of you:
Arife, I fay.

Bra.

What, have you loft your wits?

Rod. Moft reverend fignior, do you know my voice? Bra. Not I; What are you?

Rod. My name is-Roderigo.

Bra.

The worfe welcome :

I have charg'd thee, not to haunt about my

doors :

In honeft plainness thou hast heard me say,
My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness,
Being full of fupper, and diftempering draughts,

Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come

To start my quiet.

Rod. Sir, fir, fir, fir,

Bra.

My fpirit, and my place, have in them power
To make this bitter to thee.

Rod.

But thou must needs be fure,

Patience, good fir.

Bra. What tell'ft thou me of robbing? this is Venice;

My house is not a grange.

Rod.

Thurston, Del.

Othello

Act.1. Scene. 1.

Published by Vernor & Hood, 1 Nov, 1798.

Hopwood, Sculp