TALBOYS.
Then Desdemona says—
"How now, my lord?
I have been talking with a suitor here,
A man that languishes in your displeasure."
I cannot listen to that line, even now, without a feeling of the heart-sickness of protracted time—"hope deferred maketh the heart sick"—languishes! even unto death. I think of that fine line in Wordsworth—
"So fades—so languishes—grows dim, and dies."