Othello, the Moor of Venice. Уильям Шекспир

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ