JAGO in «Othello» II.

    Act I, Scene III 

    Iago and Roderigo. 

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    Virtue? A fig! ’Tis in ourselves that we are thus or
    thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our
    wills are gardeners. So that if we will plant nettles
    or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme,
    supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it 
    with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or
    manured with industry, why the power and corrigible
    authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance
    of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise
    another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our
    natures would conduct us to most prepost’rous
    conclusions. But we have reason to cool our raging
    motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts—
    whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect, or scion. [...]
    It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission
    of the will. Come, be a man! Drown thyself? Drown
    cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy
    friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving
    with cables of perdurable toughness. I could never
    better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse.
    Follow thou the wars; defeat thy favor with an
    usurped beard. I say, put money in thy purse. It
    cannot be that Desdemona should long continue
    her love to the Moor—put money in thy purse—
    nor he his to her. It was a violent commencement in
    her, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration
    —put but money in thy purse. These Moors are
    changeable in their wills. Fill thy purse with money.
    The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts
    shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida.
    She must change for youth. When she is sated
    with his body she will find the error of her choice.
    Therefore, put money in thy purse. If thou wilt
    needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than
    drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony
    and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian
    and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my
    wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her.
    Therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself!
    It is clean out of the way. Seek thou rather to be
    hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned
    and go without her.

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