Enter Roderigo and Iago.
Tush, never tell me! I take it much unkindly
That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse
As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.
'Sblood, but you'll not hear me!
If ever I did dream of such a matter, 
Thou toldst me thou didst hold him in thy hate.
If I do not. Three 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 mediators. For "Certes," says he,
"I have already chose my officer."
And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician, 
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,
A fellow almost damned in a fair wife,
Grand Canal, Looking East from the Campo San Vio (1723-24), by Canaletto.
CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE; note the Venetians, including two males in conversation, in foreground.