Page 1415 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

Whip me such honest knaves: others there are,
Who, trimm’d in forms, and visages of duty, [50]
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,
And throwing but shows of service on their lords,

Do well thrive by ’em, and when they have lin’d their coats,
Do themselves homage, those fellows have some soul,
And such a one do I profess myself,... for sir, [55]
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. [60]

For when my outward action does 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 doves to peck at: I am not what I am. [65]

RODERIGO
What a full fortune does the thicklips owe,
If he can carry’t thus!

IAGO
Call up her father,
Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight,

Proclaim him in the street, incense her kinsmen,
And though he in a fertile climate dwell, [70]
Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,
Yet throw such changes of vexation on ’t,

As it may lose some colour.

RODERIGO
Here is her father’s house, I’ll call aloud.

IAGO
Do, with like timorous accent, and dire yell, [75]
As when, by night and negligence, the fire
Is spied in populous cities.