Othello, Act 1, Scene 1

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.

Nonsense, don't tell me that. I take it very badly that you, Iago, who have had the run of my purse as though the strings were your own, should have known about this.

’Sblood, but you will not hear me. If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me.

By God's blood, you won't listen to me. If I ever so much as dreamed of such a thing, then despise me.

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

You told me you hated him.

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 bombast 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.

Hold me in contempt if I don't. Three important men of the city took off their caps to him, applying in person to have me made his lieutenant; and by a man's honour, I know what I'm worth, I deserve no lesser post. But he, in love with his own pride and his own plans, puts them off with inflated talk stuffed horribly full of military jargon, and in the end he turns down those who spoke for me, because "Certainly," he says, "I have already chosen my officer." And who was he? Why, a great accountant, one Michael Cassio, a Florentine, a man practically ruined by a beautiful wife, who has never commanded a squadron in the field and knows no more about how to draw up an army than an unmarried woman does — nothing but book theory, which the consuls in their robes can lay out as expertly as he can. Mere chatter without practice is all his soldiering. But he, sir, got the appointment, and I, whose worth Othello's own eyes have seen proved at Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other ground, Christian and heathen, must have the wind taken out of my sails by a bookkeeper, this man who counts on a counting board. He, if you please, must be his lieutenant, and I — God save us — his Moorship's flag-bearer.

By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

By heaven, I'd rather 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.

Well, there's no help for it. It's the curse of military service: promotion comes by letters of recommendation and favouritism, not by the old order of seniority, where each man in second place was heir to the one above him. Now, sir, judge for yourself whether I'm bound by any fair reckoning to love the Moor.

I would not follow him, then.

I wouldn't serve under 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 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.

Oh, sir, don't worry. I serve under him to work my own purposes on him. We can't all be masters, and not all masters can be faithfully served. You'll notice plenty of dutiful, knee-bending servants who, in love with their own fawning slavery, wear out their lives like their master's donkey, for nothing but their feed, and are dismissed when they're old. Such honest fools deserve whipping. There are others who, dressed up in the outward forms and faces of duty, keep their hearts busy with their own interests, and, giving their lords no more than a show of service, do very well out of them, and once they've feathered their nests, pay their respects to themselves. Those fellows have some spirit, and I declare myself to be one of them. For, sir, it's as certain as that you are Roderigo, that if I were the Moor, I wouldn't want to be Iago. In serving under him, I serve only myself. Heaven is my witness: I act not out of love and duty, but only seem to, for my own private purpose. For when my outward behaviour shows the true working and shape of my heart in outward display, it won't be long before I wear my heart on my sleeve for jackdaws to peck at. I am not what I am.

What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, If he can carry’t thus!

What enormous luck the thick-lipped man owns, if he can get away with it like this!

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.

Call up her father. Wake him, go after Othello, poison his pleasure, denounce him in the streets; set her relatives on fire, and though he lives in a fertile climate, torment him with flies. Though his joy is real joy, still heap so many kinds of trouble on it that it loses some of its colour.

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

Here is her father's house. I'll shout.

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

Do, with the same frightened tone and dreadful scream as when a fire is spotted at night through carelessness in a crowded city.

What ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

Hello there, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, hello!

Awake! what ho, Brabantio! Thieves, thieves! Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags! Thieves, thieves!

Wake up! Hello there, Brabantio! Thieves, thieves! See to your house, your daughter, and your money bags! Thieves, thieves!

Brabantio appears above at a window.

Brabantio appears above at a window.

What is the reason of this terrible summons? What is the matter there?

What's the reason for this frightful shouting? What's going on down there?

Signior, is all your family within?

Signior, is your whole household inside?

Are your doors locked?

Are your doors locked?

Why, wherefore ask you this?

Why, what are you asking that for?

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.

By God's wounds, sir, you've been robbed. For shame, put on your dressing gown. Your heart is broken, you have lost half your soul. Right now, this very moment, an old black ram is mounting your white ewe. Get up, get up! Wake the snoring citizens with the bell, or the devil will make you a grandfather. Get up, I say.

What, have you lost your wits?

What, have you gone out of your mind?

Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

Most respected signior, do you recognise my voice?

Not I. What are you?

No, I don't. Who are you?

My name is Roderigo.

My name is Roderigo.

The worser welcome. I have charg’d 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.

Then you're all the less welcome. I have ordered you not to hang around my doors. You've heard me say, in plain honesty, that my daughter is not for you; and now, out of your mind, full of dinner and drinks that unsettle you, out of spiteful bravado you come to disturb my peace.

Sir, sir, sir,—

Sir, sir, sir—

But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee.

But you can be quite sure that my temper and my position have the power in them to make this bitter for you.

Patience, good sir.

Be patient, good sir.

What tell’st thou me of robbing? This is Venice. My house is not a grange.

Why do you talk to me about robbery? This is Venice. My house isn't an isolated farm.

Most grave Brabantio, In simple and pure soul I come to you.

Most serious Brabantio, I come to you with a plain and honest heart.

Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service, and you think we are ruffians, you’ll have your daughter cover’d with a Barbary horse; you’ll have your nephews neigh to you; you’ll have coursers for cousins and gennets for germans.

By God's wounds, sir, you're one of those who wouldn't serve God if the devil told them to. Because we come to do you a service, and you think we're thugs, you'd let your daughter be mounted by a North African stallion; you'd have your grandchildren neigh at you; you'd have racehorses for relatives and Spanish horses for kinsmen.

What profane wretch art thou?

What blasphemous wretch are you?

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

I'm a man, sir, who comes to tell you that your daughter and the Moor are right now making the beast with two backs.

Thou art a villain.

You are a scoundrel.

You are a senator.

You are a senator.

This thou shalt answer. I know thee, Roderigo.

You'll answer for this. I know you, Roderigo.

Sir, I will answer anything. But I beseech you, If ’t be your pleasure, and most wise consent, (As partly I find it is) that your fair daughter, At this odd-even and dull watch o’ the night, Transported with no worse nor better guard, But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor: If this be known to you, and your allowance, We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs. But if you know not this, my manners tell me, We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe That from the sense of all civility, I thus would play and trifle with your reverence. Your daughter (if you have not given her leave) I say again, hath made a gross revolt, Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes In an extravagant and wheeling stranger Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself: If she be in her chamber or your house, Let loose on me the justice of the state For thus deluding you.

Sir, I'll answer for anything. But I beg you: if it is your wish and your fully considered consent — as I partly find it is — that your lovely daughter, at this uncertain hour in the dead of night, should be carried off with no better or worse escort than a hired servant, a gondolier, to the coarse embraces of a lustful Moor — if you know about this and have allowed it, then we have done you insolent, impertinent wrong. But if you don't know about it, then my sense of what's proper tells me your rebuke is unjust to us. Don't think that, abandoning all ordinary decency, I would play games and trifle with your honoured self like this. Your daughter — if you have not given her permission — has, I say again, committed a gross act of rebellion, binding her duty, her beauty, her intelligence and her fortune to a wandering, roving foreigner who belongs here and everywhere. Satisfy yourself at once: if she is in her room or anywhere in your house, turn the justice of the state loose on me for deceiving you like this.

Strike on the tinder, ho! Give me a taper! Call up all my people! This accident is not unlike my dream, Belief of it oppresses me already. Light, I say, light!

Strike a light, there! Bring me a candle! Call up all my household! This event is very like my dream; believing it weighs me down already. Light, I say, light!

Farewell; for I must leave you: It seems not meet nor wholesome to my place To be produc’d, as if I stay I shall, Against the Moor. For I do know the state, However this may gall him with some check, Cannot with safety cast him, for he’s embark’d With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls, Another of his fathom they have none To lead their business. In which regard, Though I do hate him as I do hell pains, Yet, for necessity of present life, I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him, Lead to the Sagittary the raised search, And there will I be with him. So, farewell.

Goodbye, for I must leave you. It doesn't seem suitable or safe for my position to be brought forward as a witness against the Moor, which I will be if I stay. For I know that the state, however much this may irritate him with some reprimand, cannot safely dismiss him: he has been assigned, with such loud justification, to the wars in Cyprus, which are under way right now, and, for the life of them, they have no one else of his depth to lead the business. And so, though I hate him as I hate the pains of hell, still, for the needs of my present living, I must fly a flag and show a sign of love — which is nothing but a sign. To be sure of finding him, take the search party you've raised to the Sagittary, and I'll be there with him. So, goodbye.

It is too true an evil. Gone she is, And what’s to come of my despised time, 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, she deceives me Past thought.) What said she to you? Get more tapers, Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you?

It's an evil all too true. She is gone, and what remains of my scorned life will be nothing but bitterness. Now, Roderigo, where did you see her? (Oh, unlucky girl!) With the Moor, you say? (Who would want to be a father!) How did you know it was she? (Oh, she deceives me beyond anything I could imagine.) What did she say to you? Get more candles. Wake all my relatives. Are they married, do you think?

Truly I think they are.

I honestly think they are.

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. Is there not charms By which the property of youth and maidhood May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo, Of some such thing?

Oh, heaven! How did she get out? Oh, treachery of my own blood! Fathers, from now on don't trust your daughters' minds because of what you see them do. Aren't there spells by which the nature of youth and virginity can be corrupted? Haven't you read, Roderigo, about something of that kind?

Yes, sir, I have indeed.

Yes, sir, I have indeed.

Call up my brother. O, would you had had her! Some one way, some another. Do you know Where we may apprehend her and the Moor?

Call up my brother. Oh, I wish you had had her! Some of you go one way, some another. Do you know where we can arrest her and the Moor?

I think I can discover him, if you please To get good guard, and go along with me.

I think I can find him, if you'll be so good as to get a strong guard and come with me.

Pray you lead on. At every house I’ll call, I may command at most. Get weapons, ho! And raise some special officers of night. On, good Roderigo. I will deserve your pains.

Please lead the way. I'll call at every house; at most of them I can give orders. Get weapons, there! And call out some of the night officers. On you go, good Roderigo. I'll make your trouble worth your while.