ACT I. SCENE 1.-Venice. A Street. Enter RODERIGO and IAGO. Roderigo. TUSH, never tell me, I take it much unkindly, If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me. Rod. 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, My mediators; for, certes, says he, Forsooth, a great arithmetician, One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife ;3 That never yet a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric, As masterly as he mere prattle, without practice, [1] To cap is to salute by taking off the cap. It is still an academic phrase. M. MASON. [2] Circumstance here signifies circumlocution. [3] See Illustrations. REED. [4] Venice was originally governed by consuls: and consuls seems to have been commonly used for counsellors, as afterwards in this play. By toged perhaps is meant peaceable, in opposition to the warlike qualifications which he had been speaking. MALONE. Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election: And I, (God bless the mark !) his Moor-ship's ancient. man. 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 To love the Moor ?7 Rod. I would not follow him then. I follow him to serve my turn upon him : 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, For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart [5] It was anciently the practice to reckon up sums with counters. So in The Winter's Tale, "Fifteen hundred shorn-What comes the wool to ?I cannot do't without counters." MALONE. [6] By recommendation from powerful friends. JOHNSON. [7] The meaning is, Do I stand within any such terms of propinquity or relation to the Moor, as that it is my duty to love him? JOHNSON. In compliment extern, 8 'tis not long after Rod. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, 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. 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! Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags! 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? Jago. Zounds, sir, you are robb'd; for shame, put on your gown; Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul; Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise; Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you': Arise, I say. Bra. What, have you lost your wits? Rod. Most reverend signior, do you know my voice Rod. My name is Roderigo. Bra. The worse welcome: I have charg'd thee, not to haunt about my doors. My daughter is not.for thee; and now, in madness, [8]. In that which I do only for an outward show of civility. JOHNSON Being full of supper, and distempering draughts, 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.9 Rod. Most grave Brabantio, In simple and pure soul I come to you. Iago. "Zounds, sir, you are one of those, that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service, 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: [9] In Lincolnshire, and in other northern counties, they call every lone house, or farm which stands solitary a grange. So in Measure for Measure, "-at the moated grange resides this dejected Mariana." T. WARTON. [1] Nephew, in this instance has the power of the Latin word nepos, and signifies a grandson, or any lineal descendant. The alliteration in this passage caused Shakspeare to have recourse to it. A jennet is a Spanish horse. STEEVENS, [2] This odd-even is the interval between twelve at night, and, one in the morning. HENLEY. Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes, Of here and every where: Straight satisfy yourself: Let loose on me the justice of the state Bra. Strike on the tinder, ho! Give me a taper ;-call up all my people :- Belief of it oppresses me already : Light, I say! light! [Exit, from above. Against the Moor: For, I do know, the state,- To lead their business: In which regard, I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign. That you may surely find him, Lead to the Sagittary the rais'd search; And there will I be with him. So, farewell. [Exit. Enter, below, BRABANTIO and Servants with torches. Bra. It is too true an evil: gone she is ; And what's to come of my despised time, 3 Is naught but bitterness. Now, Roderigo, Where didst thou see her?-O, unhappy girl!With the Moor, say'st thou ?-Who would be a father?How didst thou know 'twas she?-O, thou deceiv'st me Past thought! What said she to you?-Get more tapers; Raise all my kindred.- Are they married, think you? 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.-Are there not charms, [3] Despised time, is, time of no value: time in which 28 "There's nothing serious in mortality, "The wine of life is drawn, and the mere dregs VOL. VIII. Macbeth. JOHNSON. |