Iago. My lord, you know I love you.

Oth. I think thou dost.

And for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty,

And weigh'st thy words before thou giv'st them breath,
Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more:
For such things in a false, disloyal knave,

Are tricks of custom; but, in a man that's just,
They're close denotements, working from the heart,
That passion can not rule.

Iago. For Michael Cassio,

I dare be sworn, I think, that he is honest.

Oth. I think so, too.

Iago. Men should be what they seem:

Or, those that be not, would they might seem none!
Oth. Certain, men should be what they seem.

Iago. Why, then, I think Cassio's an honest man.
Oth. Nay, yet there's more in this;

I pray thee, speak to me as to thy thinkings,

As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thought.
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?

Oth. 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, oft, my jealousy
Shapes faults that are not,) I entreat you, then,

From one that so imperfectly conceits,

You'd take no notice; nor build yourself a trouble

Out of this 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.

Oth. 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; 't is something, nothing:

'Twas mine, 't is 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.

Oth. By heaven, I'll know thy thoughts!

Iago. You can not, if my heart were in your hand; Nor shall not, while 't is in my custody.,

Oth. Ha!

Iago. Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-eyed monster which doth make
The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss,
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;
But, oh, what dam-ned minutes tells ha o'er,

Who dotes, yet doubts; suspects, yet strongly loves!
Oth. Oh, misery!

Iago. Poor and content, is rich, and rich enough;
But riches, endless, are as poor as winter,

To him that ever fears he shall be poor:

Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend
From jealousy!

Oth. Why, why is this?

Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy,

To follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions? No! No, Iago,
I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove;
And, on the proof, there is no more but this;

Away at once with love or jealousy.

Iago. I am glad of this; for now I shall have reason To show the love and duty that I bear you, With franker spirit: therefore as I am bound, Receive it from me: I speak not yet of proof: Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio; Wear your eye, thus-not jealous, nor secure: I would not have your free and noble nature, Out of self-bounty, be abused; look to 't.

Oth. Dost thou say so?

Iago. She did deceive her father marrying you; And when she seem'd to shake, and fear your looks,

She loved them most.

Oth. And so she did.

Iago. Why, go to, then;

She that so young, could give out such a seeming,

To seal her father's eyes up close as oak;

He thought 't was witchcraft:-but I am much to blame;

I humbly do beseech you of your pardon,

For too much loving you.

Oth. I am bound to thee forever.

Iago. I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits.
Oth. Not a jot, not a jot.

Iago. Trust me, I fear it has.

I hope you will consider what is spoke,

Comes from my love! but, I do see, you are moved:

I am to pray you, not to strain my speech

To grosser issues, nor to larger reach,

Than to suspicion. (Exit.)

Oth. Why did I marry? This honest creature, doubtless, Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. (Exit.) FROM SHAKSPEARE.

CVI.-MATRIMONY.

Ar the close of the third paragraph, the speaker should pause awhile, and resume with an appearance of disappointment. It would be still better, if he could retire for a moment, and then return.

Well,

CERTAINLY, matrimony is an invention of. no matter who invented it. I'm going to try it. Here's my blue coat with the bright, brass buttons! The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff vest and neck-tie, too! may I be shot, if I don't offer them both to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. "Pardiggle!" Phoebus! what a name for such a rosebud. I'll re-christen her by the euphonious name of Smith. She'll have me, of course. She wants a husband, I want a wife: there's one point already in which we perfectly agree. I hate preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose, you can skip the rudiments. Say what you've got to say, in a fraction of a second. Women grow as mischievous as Satan, if they think you are afraid of them. Do I look as if I were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The Bearded Lady couldn't hold a candle to them, (though I wonder she don't to her own.) Afraid? h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia. What the mischief ails this cravat?

It must be the cold

that makes my hand tremble so. There-that'll do. That's quite an inspiration. Brummel himself could n't go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little round face! I'm immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a quit claim. I'll make her as happy as a little robin. Do you think I'd bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I'd sit, after tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up chimney for three hours together? Do you think I'd leave her blessed little side, to dangle round oyster-saloons and theaters? Do I look like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up street? No. Mr. and Mrs. Adam were not more beautiful in their nuptial-bower, than I shall be with the Widow Pardiggle.

Refused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well; there's one comfort: nobody 'll believe it. She is not so very pretty after all. Her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy:-not so very ready either, confound the gipsy! What amazing pretty shoulders she has! Well, who cares?

"If she be not fair to me,

What care I how fair she be?"

Ten to one, she'd have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle for my model. Who wants to be Pardiggle 2d? I am glad she didn't have me. I mean, I'm glad I didn't have

her!

FROM FANNY FERN.

CVII. THE DISAPPOINTED HUSBAND.

SHE's not what fancy painted her;

I'm sadly taken in:

If some one else had won her, I
Should not have cared a pin.

I thought that she was mild and good
As maiden e'er could be;

I wonder how she ever could

Have so much humbugged me.

They cluster round and shake my hand;

They tell me I am blest:

My case they do not understand;

I think that I know best.

They say she's fairest of the fair;
They drive me mad and madder.
What do they mean? I do declare,
I only wish they had her.

'Tis true that she has lovely locks,
That on her shoulders fall;

What would they say, to see the box
In which she keeps them all?

Her taper fingers, it is true,
'T were difficult to match;

What would they say, if they but knew
How terribly they scratch?

CVIII.-AMERICA ASCENDANT.

TROY, THEBES, PALMYRA, ATHENS; ancient governments.

LEONIDAS; a Grecian hero.

OTTOMAN; Turk.

I APPEAL to History! Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can all the illusions of ambition realized, can all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all the achievements of successful heroism, or all the establishments of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions? Alas! Troy thought so once. Yet the land of Priam lives only in song! Thebes thought so once. Yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate.

So thought Palmyra. Where is she? So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartans. Yet the grave of Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens, insulted by the servile, mindless, and enervate Ottoman! In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined immortality; and all its vanities, from the