Quotes About Manipulation

William Shakespeare

Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.

If you find him sad, say I am dancing. If in mirth, report that I am sudden sick.

Them that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.

These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me.

Thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends, stolen forth of holy writ, and seem a saint when most I play the devil.

And with a little pin bores through his castle wall and farewell king.

if I were the Moor I wouldn't want to be Iago.

The devil a puritan that he is, or anything, constantly, but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swathes; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him – and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

Ay, sir, that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

The Moor is of a free and open nature, That thinks men honest that but seem to be so; And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are.

Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth, In Riddles, and Affaires of death; And I the Mistris of your Charmes, The close contriuer of all harmes, Was neuer call'd to beare my part, Or shew the glory of our Art?

How shall I murder him, Iago?

Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you...I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are making the beast with two backs.

Rouse him:—make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen, And, though he in a fertile climate dwell, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, Yet throw such changes of vexation

Be the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it

I want that glib and oily art to speak and purpose not, since what I well intend, I'll do't before I speak.

O, she was foul!— I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp'd: I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead: Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobance. OTHELLO 'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath

Borne by the trustless wings of false desire.

I only belive in statistics I doctored myself