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, shouldst know of this.

ROD:

Rubbish! Don’t tell me; I don’t like it at all
That you, Iago, who has used my purse
As if the strings were yours, should know about this.

IAGO:

'Sblood, but you will not hear me.
If ever I did dream of such a matter,(5)
Abhor me.

IAGO:

God’s blood! but you’re not listening to me.
If I ever dreamt about such a matter,
Hate me.

ROD:

Thou told'st me thou didst hold him in thy hate.

ROD:

You told me you hated him.

IAGO:

Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city,
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Offcapp'd to him; and, by the faith of man,(10)
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,(15)
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(20)
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 theoric,
Where in the toga'd consuls can propose(25)
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 belee'd and calm'd(30)
By debitor and creditor. This countercaster,
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,
And I—God bless the mark!—his Moorship's ancient.

IAGO:

Despise me, if I don’t. Three major people of the city
Personally ask him to make me his lieutenant,
Take off their hats to him. and, by the faith of man,
I know my price, I am worth that promotion.
But he, loving his own pride and purposes,
Evades them, beating around the bush proudly,
Horribly stuffed with his usual talk of war.
And, in conclusion, tells
My mediators, “No,” because, "Certainly," he says,
"I have already chosen my officer."
And who was he?
Truly, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,
A fellow almost damned in a having a beautiful wife;
That has never led a squadron in the field,
And doesn’t know the division of a battle any
More than a spinster does, unless the theory books,
In which the consuls wearing togas can propose a plan
As masterly as he can. His war skills are only talk,
Without practice. But he, sir, got the promotion.
And I, who saw what he had done
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other battlegrounds,
Christian and heathen, must be spoken to and calmed
Down by debtor and creditor, this bean counter.
He must be his lieutenant in good time,
And I, God bless the mark! his Moorship's ensign.

ROD:

By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

ROD:

By heaven, I would rather have been his hangman.

IAGO:

Why, there's no remedy. 'Tis the curse of service,(35)
Preferment goes by letter and affection,
And not by old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself
Whether I in any just term am affined
To love the Moor.(40)

IAGO:

Why, there's no remedy; it is the curse of the military.
Preference goes by who you know and who likes you,
And not by old system, where each second person
Took the first’s place. Now, sir, judge it for yourself
Whether or I am better suited in any beautiful terms
To love the Moor.

ROD:

I would not follow him then.

ROD:

I wouldn’t 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(45)
Many a duteous and kneecrooking knave,
That doting on his own obsequious bondage
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For naught but provender; and, when he's old, cashier'd.
Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are,(50)
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 lined their
coats(55)
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.(60)
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(65)
In complement 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.

IAGO:

O, sir, content you;
I follow him to serve my turn on him.
We all cannot be masters, nor can all masters
Be truly followed. You shall see
Many a duteous and knee-bending rogue
That, doting on his own obedient slavery,
Wears himself out, much like his master's ass,
For nothing but dry oats; and when he's old, dismissed
From the service. I would whip such honest rogues.
There are others who, dressed in uniforms and faces of
duty, that keep their hearts attending on themselves;
And, throwing only shows of service to their lords,
Thrive well by them, and when they have lined their coats,
Do themselves homage. These fellows have some soul;
And someone like that is how I am.
Because, sir,
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago.
In following him, I follow only myself;
Heaven is my judge for love and duty, not I.
I only seem so for my own peculiar end,
Because when my outward action demonstrates
The native act and figure of my heart
In external complement, it is not long after
That I will only I wear my heart on my sleeve
For crows to peck at. I am not what I am.