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. 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, And, in conclufion, nonfuits Forfooth, a great arithmetician, One Michael Caffio, a Florentine, A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife; More than a spinfter; unless the bookish theorick, As masterly as he mere prattle, without practice, And I, (God bless the mark!) his Moor-ship's ancient. Not by the old gradation, where each fecond Stood heir to the firft. Now, fir, be judge yourself, 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 : Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lin'd their coats, Do themselves homage: these fellows have fome foul; For, fir, It is as fure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago : Rod. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, Iago. Call up her father, Roufe him: make after him, poison his delight, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, Rod. Here is her father's houfe; I'll call aloud. 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! 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; 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, 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 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. |