The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 393

Hero. And here's another, Writ in my cousin's hand, stol'n from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Bened.i.c.k.

Bene. A miracle! Here's our own hands against our hearts.

Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

Beat. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.

Bene. Peace! I will stop your mouth. [Kisses her.]

Beat. I'll tell thee what, Prince: a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No. If a man will be beaten with brains, 'a shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.

For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruis'd, and love my cousin.

Claud. I had well hop'd thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgell'd thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer, which out of question thou wilt be if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.

Bene. Come, come, we are friends. Let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives' heels.

Leon. We'll have dancing afterward.

Bene. First, of my word! Therefore play, music. Prince, thou art sad. Get thee a wife, get thee a wife! There is no staff more reverent than one tipp'd with horn.

Enter Messenger.

Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight, And brought with armed men back to Messina.

Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow. I'll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers!

Dance. [Exeunt.]

THE END

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1605

THE TRAGEDY OF OTh.e.l.lO, MOOR OF VENICE

by William Shakespeare

Dramatis Personae

OTh.e.l.lO, the Moor, general of the Venetian forces DESDEMONA, his wife IAGO, ensign to Oth.e.l.lo EMILIA, his wife, lady-in-waiting to Desdemona Ca.s.sIO, lieutenant to Oth.e.l.lo THE DUKE OF VENICE BRABANTIO, Venetian Senator, father of Desdemona GRATIANO, n.o.bleman of Venice, brother of Brabantio LODOVICO, n.o.bleman of Venice, kinsman of Brabantio RODERIGO, rejected suitor of Desdemona BIANCA, mistress of Ca.s.sio MONTANO, a Cypriot official A Clown in service to Oth.e.l.lo Senators, Sailors, Messengers, Officers, Gentlemen, Musicians, and Attendants

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SCENE: Venice and Cyprus

ACT I. SCENE I.

Venice. A street.

Enter Roderigo and Iago.

RODERIGO. 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.

IAGO. 'Sblood, but you will not hear me.

If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me.

RODERIGO. 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, Off-capp'd to him; and, by the faith of man, I know my price, I am worth no worse a place.

But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, Evades them, with a b.u.mbast circ.u.mstance 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 Ca.s.sio, a Florentine (A fellow almost d.a.m.n'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, Wherein the toged consuls can propose As masterly as he. Mere prattle without practice Is all his soldiers.h.i.+p. 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 By debitor and creditor. This counter-caster, He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, And I- G.o.d bless the mark!- his Moors.h.i.+p's ancient.

RODERIGO. By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

IAGO. Why, there's no remedy. 'Tis the curse of service, 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.

RODERIGO. 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 a.s.s, For nought but provender, and when he's old, cas.h.i.+er'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 lined 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 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.

RODERIGO. 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 color.

RODERIGO. 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.

RODERIGO. 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 appears above, at a window.

BRABANTIO. What is the reason of this terrible summons?

What is the matter there?

RODERIGO. Signior, is all your family within?

IAGO. Are your doors lock'd?

BRABANTIO. Why? Wherefore ask you this?

IAGO. 'Zounds, sir, you're robb'd! For shame, put on your gown; Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul; Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise!

Awake the snorting citizens with the bell, Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you.

Arise, I say!

BRABANTIO. What, have you lost your wits?

RODERIGO. Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

BRABANTIO. Not I. What are you?

RODERIGO. My name is Roderigo.

BRABANTIO. The worser welcome.

I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors.

In honest plainness thou hast heard me say My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness, Being full of supper and distempering draughts, Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come To start my quiet.

RODERIGO. Sir, sir, sir- BRABANTIO. But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee.