Iago (alone.) That Cassio loves her, I believe, and that she loves him back, that at least can be believed. As for the Moor, I must confess, though I cannot bear him, that he is of a staid, loving, and noble disposition; and I have no doubt that he will be a truly tender husband to Desdemona. Now I love her too, not so much from any particular lust for her (though I may be in the devil’s debt book for equally great sins), but rather to take revenge on the voluptuous Moor, whom I suspect may have come too near to my wife. A thought that gnaws at my core like mineral poison and will give me no peace until I’m even with him, woman for woman. Or if that fails, the Moor must at least be made so jealous that reason itself will be of no use to him. And if this poor Venetian Brak, whom I love only for his good hunting, really goes to town on our Michael Cassio, we’ll soon get him by the hip and recommend him to the Moor in a way that will have its effect; and the Moor will still thank me, and love and reward me for turning him into a pure ass, and deceiving him from the proud peace of his soul to madness. All this lies here—but still confused; roguery doesn’t reveal its full face until it’s done.
(Exits.)
