Enter RODERIGO and IAGO

RODERIGO and IAGO enter.

RODERIGO

Tush! Never tell me. I take it much unkindlyThat thou, Iago, who hast had my purseAs if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.

RODERIGO

Psh! Don't say that. Iago, I am not pleased that you've known about this, especially since I've given you access to my wallet as if it were your own.

IAGO

'Sblood, but you’ll not hear me! If ever I did dream of such a matter, abhor me.

IAGO

Christ, you're not listening to me! I never even dreamed of such a thing. If I did, you'd have every right to hate me.

RODERIGO

Thou told’st meThou didst hold him in thy hate.

RODERIGO

You told me that you hated him.

IAGO

Despise me If I do not. Three great ones of the city (In personal suit to make me his lieutenant) Off-capped 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 stuffed 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 damned 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 th' 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 calmed By debitor and creditor. This counter-caster He (in good time) must his lieutenant be And I, bless the mark, his Moorship’s ancient.

IAGO

If I don't hate him, you can hate me. Three noblemen of the city tipped their hats to him, making a personal plea for him to make me his lieutenant. And, truly, I know my value, and I'm worthy of that position. But of course Othello is too proud to listen and wants to do things his own way, so he speaks in circles with empty talk about war-related titles. And in the end he declines their proposal and says, "Certainly, I have already chosen my lieutenant." And who did he choose? A guy who's basically a mathematician, some Michael Cassio, from Florence. A man practically cursed with a wife too beautiful (whom he can't control). A man who has never commanded a squadron on the battlefield, who knows no more about battle than an old lady. He knows only theory from books, full of the talk of old geezers in togas. His military experience is all ideas, with no real action! But, sir, Othello chose this Cassio for lieutenant, not me—even though he's seen proof of my military prowess with his own eyes at Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on all sorts of battlefields in Christian and Pagan lands. Now, my career's stalled and I'm overtaken by some number cruncher—an accountant! That bean-counter will be his lieutenant before too long, and meanwhile I'll be carrying around his Moorship's flag, thank you very much.

RODERIGO

By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

RODERIGO

God, I'd rather be his executioner than his flag-bearer.

IAGO

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 th' first. Now sir, be judge yourself, Whether I in any just term am affined To love the Moor.

IAGO

Well, there's nothing I can do. That's the price of military service. Promotions are a matter of favoritism—based on whoever the leader likes—not based on rank, with a second officer stepping up to become a first officer, and so on. So now , sir, you be the judge and tell me: do I have any reason at all to love that Moor?

RODERIGO

I would not follow him then.

RODERIGO

If I were your position I wouldn't follow him. So why do you?

IAGO

O sir, content you. I follow him to serve my turn upon him. We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed. 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 naught but provender, and when he’s old, cashiered. Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are Who, trimmed 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 lined 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 compliment 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.

IAGO

Oh, sir, calm yourself. I'm following him only so I can turn on him later. Maybe we can't all be leaders, but not all leaders can have loyal followers. All the time you see dutiful servants kneeling to their masters and working like mules for nothing but food. And when they get old, they're fired. These honest fools deserve to be whipped! There are others who take the appearance of duty and loyalty, but stay focused on their own interests. They put on a good show of serving their lords, and thrive in their subservient positions. But once they get enough money, they serve only themselves. These are the guys who really have some soul. That's the kind of servant I am. Believe me, as sure as your name is Roderigo: if I were the Moor, I would not want Iago as my servant. In following him, I'm really just following myself. God may judge me. I swear I'm not serving Othello out of love and duty, but merely appearing to, for my own purposes. If my outward appearance showed what my real intentions are, It would be like wearing my heart on my sleeve for birds to peck at. I am not what I seem to be.

RODERIGO

What a full fortune does the Thick-lips oweIf he can carry’t thus!

RODERIGO

What luck  Thick-lips has, if he can pull off what he's trying to do.

IAGO

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.

IAGO

Call up Desdemona's father.  Wake him up. We'll slander Othello in the streets, and ruin his happiness by getting his wife's family all riled up. And even if he's in a paradise right now, we'll fill it with flies. He may still be happy, but we'll douse him in so much irritation that his happiness will lose some of its luster.