OTHELLO,
           the Moor,
         general of the Venetian forces

    DESDEMONA,
           his wife

    IAGO,
           ensign to Othello

    EMILIA,
           his wife,
         lady-in-waiting to Desdemona

    CASSIO,
           lieutenant to Othello

   THE DUKE OF VENICE

    BRABANTIO,
           Venetian Senator,
         father of Desdemona

    GRATIANO,
           nobleman of Venice,
         brother of Brabantio

    LODOVICO,
           nobleman of Venice,
         kinsman of Brabantio

    RODERIGO,
           rejected suitor of Desdemona

    BIANCA,
           mistress of Cassio

    MONTANO,
           a Cypriot official

    A Clown
           in service to Othello

    Senators,
           Sailors,
         Messengers,
           Officers,
         Gentlemen,
           Musicians,
         and Attendants

    SCENE:
        Venice and Cyprus
 
  ACT I. SCENE I. Venice. A
       street.

    Enter Roderigo and Iago.

    RODERIGO.

    O 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.

    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 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 debator and creditor.

    This counter-caster,
           He,
         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 second
            Stood heir to the first.

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