1 The servants of the duke and my lieutenant.
2 My parts, my title, and my perfect soul Shall manifest me rightly.
3 But if you know not this, my manners tell me, We have your wrong rebuke.
4 Gone she is, And what's to come of my despised time, Is naught but bitterness.
5 Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end.
6 And my demerits May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune As this that I have reach'd.
7 But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee.
8 The duke himself, Or any of my brothers of the state, Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own.'
9 I follow him to serve my turn upon him: We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow'd.
10 Hold your hands, Both you of my inclining and the rest: Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter.
11 Farewell; for I must leave you: It seems not meet nor wholesome to my place To be produc'd, as if I stay I shall, Against the Moor.
12 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.
13 For know, Iago, But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused free condition Put into circumscription and confine For the sea's worth.
14 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.
15 For when my outward action doth demonstrate 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.'
16 I have charg'd 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.
17 Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business Hath rais'd me from my bed, nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
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