(_SHAKSPEARE ONCE MORE ON THE SITUATION._)
[Illustration]
_Iago_ MR. J-S-PH CH-MB-RL-N.
_Roderigo_ MR. J-SSE C-LL-NS.
_Roderigo._ Thou told'st me thou did'st hold him in thy hate.
_Iago._ Despise me, if I did not. The great ones of the City,
In personal suit to make me his Lieutenant,
Off-capped to him:--and, by the faith of man,
I know my price--I am worth no worse a place;
But he, as loving his own pride and purposes,
Evades them with a bombast circumstance,
Horribly stuffed with epithets of war;
And, in conclusion,
Nonsuits my meditators; for, "Certes," says he,
"I have already chose my officer." And who was he?
Forsooth, a great Arithmetician.
* * * * *
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster; unless the bookish theorick,
Wherein the toged Consul can propose
As masterly as he; mere prattle, without practice,
Is all his soldiership.
_But, Sir, he had the Election!_
* * * * *