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RODERIGO.Tush, never tell me, I take it much unkindlyThat 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 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 knowsMore than a spinster, unless the bookish theoric, Wherein the toged consuls can proposeAs masterly as he: mere prattle without practiceIs all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election, And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proofAt Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds, Christian and heathen, must be belee'd and calm'dBy debitor and creditor, this counter-caster,5He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, And I, God bless the mark, his Moorship'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 secondStood heir to the first. Now sir, be judge yourselfWhether I in any just term am affin'dTo 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 mastersCannot be truly follow'd. You shall markMany a duteous and knee-crooking knaveThat, 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 areWho, 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 demonstrateThe native act and figure of my heartIn complement extern, 'tis not long afterBut I will wear my heart upon my sleeveFor daws.