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. What a full fortune does the thicklips 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 colour. Here is her father's house; I'll call aloud. Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell As when, by night and negligence, the fire Is spied in populous cities. What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho! Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves! Look to your house, your daughter and your bags! Thieves! thieves! What is the reason of this terrible summons? What is the matter there? Signior, is all your family within? Are your doors lock'd? Why, wherefore ask you this? '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 topping 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. What, have you lost your wits? Most reverend signior, do you know my voice? Not I what are you? My name is Roderigo. The worser welcome: I have charged 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. Sir, sir, sir,-- But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee. Patience, good sir. What tell'st thou me of robbing? this is Venice; My house is not a grange. Most grave Brabantio, In simple and pure soul I come to you. 'Zounds,