Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

      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, —

      'Sblood, but you will not hear me: —

      If ever I did dream of such a matter,

      Abhor me.

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

      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 bumbast circumstance

      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 Cassio, a Florentine,

      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,

      Wherein the toged consuls can propose

      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

      By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster;

      He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,

      And I – God bless the mark! his Moorship's ancient.

      By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

      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 affin'd

      To love the Moor.

                                    I would not follow him, then.

      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 ass,

      For nought but provender; and when he's old, cashier'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 lin'd 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 demónstrate

      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.

      What a full fortune does the thick lips owe,

      If he can carry't thus!

                                          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.

      Here is her father's house: I'll call aloud.

      Do; with like timorous accent and dire yell

      As when, by night and negligence, the fire

      Is spied in populous cities.

      What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

      Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves!

      Look