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THE TRAGEDIE OF Othello, the Moore of Venice. Actus Primus. Scoena Prima. Enter Rodorigo, and Iago. Neuer tell me, I take it much vnkindly That thou ( Iago ) who hast had my purse, As if strings were thine, should'st know of this. But you'l not heare me. If euer I did dream Of such a matter, abhorre me. Thou told'st me, Thou did'st hold him in thy hate. Despise me If I do not. Three Great-ones of the Cittie, (In personall suite to make me his Lieutenant) Off-capt to him: and by the faith of man I know my price, I am worth no worsse a place. But he (as louing his owne pride, and purposes) Euades them, with a bumbast Circumstance, Horribly stufft with Epithites of warre, Non-suites my Mediators. For certes, saies he, I haue already chose my Officer. And what was he? For-sooth, a great Arithmatician, One Michaell Cassio, a Florentine, (A Fellow almost damn'd in a faire Wife) That neuer set a Squadron in the Field, Nor the deuision of a Battaile knowes More then a Spinster. Vnlesse the Boo . . .
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