PERSONS REPRESENTED.

Duke of Venice.
Brabantio, a Senator.
Two other Senators.
Gratiano, brother to Brabantio.
Lodovico, kinsman to Brabantio.
Othello, the Moor:
Cassio, his Lieutenant;
Iago, his Ancient.
Roderigo, a Venetian Gentleman.
Montano, Othello's predecessor in the government

of Cyprus.
Clown, servant to Othello.
Herald.

Desdemona, daughter to Brabantio, and wife to

Othello.
Emilia, wife to Iago.
Bianca, a courtezan, mistress to Cassio.

Officers, Gentlemen, Messengers, Musicians, Sailors,

Attendants, 8c.

Scene, for the first Act, in Venice; during the rest of

the play, at a sea-port in Cyprus.

Enter Roderigo and Iago. Rod. Tush, never tell me, I take it much un

kindly, 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 such a matter, Abhor me. Rod. Thou told'st 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, Oft capp'd to him ;-and, by the faith of man,

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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 conclusion, nonsuits
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 battle knows
More than a spinster; unless the bookish theorick,
Wherein the toged 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-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 an-

cient. Rod. By heaven, I rather would have been his

hangman. Iago. But there's no remedy, 'tis the curse of

service: Preferment goes by letter, and affection, Not by the old gradation, where each second Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, 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, 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 duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For vought but provender; and, when he's old,

cashier'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 lind

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, '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, 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't, As it may lose some colour.

Rod. Here is her father's house; I'll call aloud. Iago. 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! 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 sum

mons?
What is the matter there?

Rod. Signior, is all your family within?
Iago. Are your doors lock'd?
Bra.

Why? wherefore ask you this? Iago. 'Zounds, sir, you are robb’d; for shame,

put on your gown; Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;