Oth. What dost thou think? Iago. Think, my Lord! Oth. Think, my Lord! Why, by Heav'n! thou echo'st mie, As if there were some monster in thy thought Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something: What did'st not like? And when I told thee, he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, "Indeed!" Some norrible conceit. If thou dost love me, Iago. My Lord, you know I love you. Oth. I think thou dost: And, for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty, Are tricks of custom; but in a man that's just, Iago For Michael Cassio, I dare be sworn, I think, that he is honest.. Iago. Men should be what they seem; Or, those that be not, would they might seem knaves. I pray thee speak to me as to thy thinkings; As thou dost ruminate; and give thy worst of thoughts Iago. Good, my Lord, pardon me; Though I am bound to ev'ry act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts!-Why, say they're vile and false; Keep leets and law-days, and in sessions sit Oth. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, Iago. I do beseech you, Think I perchance am vicious in my guess, Your wisdom would not build yourself a trouble Oth. What dost thou mean? Iago. Good name in man or woman, dear my Lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; "Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name, Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed. Oth. I'll know thy thoughts Iago. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand; Nor shall not, while 'tis in my custody. Oth. Ha! Iago. O beware, my Lord, of jealousy! It is a green-ey'd mouster, which doth mock Who doats, yet doubts; suspects, yet strongly loves! Iago. Poor and content is rich, and rich enough; To him that ever fears he shall be poor. Good Heav'n! the souls of all my tribe defend Oth. Why, why is this? Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy? To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions ?-Tis not to make me jealous Iago. I'm glad of this: for now I shall have reason, To show the love and duty that I bear you With franker spirit. Therefore, as. I'm bound, Oth. Dost thou say so? Iago. She did deceive her father, marrying you; And when she seem'd to shake, and fear your looks, She lov'd them most. Oth. And so she did. Iago. Go to then; She that, so young, could give out such a seeming, He thought 'twas witchcraft-But I'm much to blame : For too much loving you. Oth. I am bound to you for ever. Iago. I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits. Iago. Trust me, I fear it has : I hope you will consider what is spoke Comes from my love. But I do see you're mov'd— Than to suspicion. Oth. I will not. Iago. Should you do so, my Lord, My Lord, I see you're mov'd Oth. No, not much mov❜d Cassio's my worthy friend. I do not think but Desdemona's honest. Iago. Long live she so! and long live you to think so! Oth. And yet, how Nature's erring from itself Iago. Ay, there's the point!-as (to be bold with you) Not to affect many proposed matches Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, Oth. Farewell, farewell; If more thou dost perceive, let me know more: Tago. My Lord, I take my leave. Oth. Why did I marry? This honest creature, doubtless, Sees, and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. To scan this thing no farther; leave it to time: Although 'tis fit that Cassio have his place, For, sure, he fills it up with great ability; SHAKSPEARE. CHAP. XXII. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS MOTHER'S MARRIAGE. OH that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, Fie on't! oh fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature, But two months dead; nay, not so much; not two;— Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, By what it fed on; yet, within a month, Let me not think- -Frailty, thy name is Woman! (O Heav'n! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears She married!- -O, most wicked speed, to post But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. SHAKSPEARE. |