All these to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Whichever as she could with haste despatch, She’d come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse. Which, I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof, by parcels, she had something heard, But not distinctly.
I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. She swore in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful; She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man.
She thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. On this hint I spake; She loved me for the dangers I had passed; And I loved her that she did pity them: This is the only witchcraft which I’ve used.
