Sailor, Messenger, Herald, Officers, Gentlemen, Musicians, and Attendants. SCENE: Venice: a seaport in Cyprus. ACT I-SCENE I Venice. A street. Enter Roderigo and Iago. Rod. Tush, never tell me; I take it much unkindly As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this. If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me. Rod. Thou told'st me thou didst hold him in thy hate. And, in conclusion, Nonsuits my mediators; for, 'Certes,' says he, Forsooth, a great arithmetician, One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife; More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric, As masterly as he mere prattle without practice At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds And I-God bless the mark !-his Moorship's ancient. And not by old gradation, where each second Now, sir, be judge yourself Whether I in any just term am affined To love the Moor. Rod. I would not follow him then. I follow him to serve my turn upon him: Do well thrive by them, and when they have lined their coats 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, Iago. Call up her father, Rouse him make after him, poison his delight, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, Rod. Here is her father's house; I'll call aloud. Rod. What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho Iago. Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves! Brabantio appears above, at a window. Bra. What is the reason of this terrible summons? Rod. Signior, is all your family within ? Jago. Are your doors lock'd? Bra. Why, wherefore ask you this? Iago. 'Zounds, sir, you're robb'd; for shame, put on your gown ; Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise; Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you ; Bra. What, have you lost your wits? Rod. My name is Roderigo. Bra. The worser welcome : I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors. My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness, To start my quiet. Rod. Sir, sir, sir, Bra. But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power Rod. Patience, good sir. Bra. What tell'st thou me of robbing? this is Venice; My house is not a grange. Rod. Most grave Brabantio, In simple and pure soul I come to you. lago. 'Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service and you think we are ruffians, you'll have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse; you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have coursers for cousins, and gennets for germans. Bra. What profane wretch art thou? Iago. I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs. Bra. Thou art a villain. Iago. You are a senator. Bra. This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo. I thus would play and trifle with your reverence: Tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes, In an extravagant and wheeling stranger Of here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself: Let loose on me the justice of the state Bra. Strike on the tinder, ho! Light, I say! light! Iago. [Exit above. Farewell; for I must leave you: Against the Moor: for I do know, the state, Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls, Another of his fathom they have none I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him, Exit. Enter, below, Brabantio, in his night-gown, and Servants with torches. Bra. It is too true an evil: gone she is; With the Moor, say'st thou? Who would be a father! Rod. Truly, I think they are. Bra. O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood! Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters' minds By what you see them act. Is there not charms By which the property of youth and maidhood Rod. Yes, sir, I have indeed. Bra. Call up my brother. O, would you had had her 1 Bra. Pray you, lead on. At every house I'll call ; Get weapons, ho! And raise some special officers of night. On, good Roderigo; I'll deserve your pains. [Exeunt. SCENE II Another strect. Enter Othello, Iago, and Attendants with torches. Iago. Though in the trade of war I have slain men, I had thought to have yerk'd him here under under the ribs. Oth. 'Tis better as it is. |