OTHELLO. Certain, men should be what they seem. 

IAGO. Why then, I think Cassio’s an honest man. 

OTHELLO. Nay, yet there’s more in this: I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words. 

IAGO. Good my lord, pardon me. Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false: As where’s that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not? Who has a breast so pure But some uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-days, and in session sit With meditations lawful? 

OTHELLO. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think’st him wrong’d and mak’st his ear A stranger to thy thoughts. 

IAGO. I do beseech you, Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague To spy into abuses, and of my jealousy Shapes faults that are not,—that your wisdom From one that so imperfectly conceits, Would take no notice; nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance. It were not for your quiet nor your good, Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, To let you know my thoughts. 

OTHELLO. What dost thou mean? 

IAGO. Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse steals trash. ’Tis something, nothing; ’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed. 

OTHELLO. By heaven, I’ll know thy thoughts. 

IAGO. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand, Nor shall not, whilst ’tis in my custody. 

OTHELLO. Ha? 

IAGO. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But O, what damned minutes tells he o’er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves! 

OTHELLO. O misery! 

IAGO. Poor and content is rich, and rich enough; But riches fineless is as poor as winter To him that ever fears he shall be poor. Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend From 

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