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M.THOMPSON RA. PINXIT.
PUBLISH BY LONGMAN AND co. MDCCCY,
SCENE I.---Venice. A Street.
Enter RODERIGO and IAGO.
Rod. Tush, never tell me; I take it much unkindly, 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,
Rod. Thou told'st me, thou didst hold him in thy hate.
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Oft capp'd to him ;---and, by the faith of man,
My mediators; for certes, says he,
Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,
As masterly as he mere prattle, without practice,
And I, (God bless the mark!) his Moor-ship's ancient.
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:
Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself;
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,
Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,
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 summons? 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;
Even now, very now, an old black ram
Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise;