And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,
     It is as sure as you are Roderigo, 
     Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago. 
     In following him, I follow but myself; 
     Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, 
     But seeming so, for my peculiar end; 
     For when my outward action doth demonstrate 
     The native act and figure of my heart 
     In compliment extern, ’tis not long after 
     But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve 
     For daws to peck at. I am not what I am.