Des. My Lord
Othello. Get you to bed on th' instant, I will be return'd
forthwith: dismisse your Attendant there: look't
be done.
Enter.
Des. I will my Lord
Aem. How goes it now? He lookes gentler then he did
Des. He saies he will returne incontinent,
And hath commanded me to go to bed,
And bid me to dismisse you
Aemi. Dismisse me?
Des. It was his bidding: therefore good aemilia,
Giue me my nightly wearing, and adieu.
We must not now displease him.
Aemil. I, would you had neuer seene him
Des. So would not I: my loue doth so approue him,
That euen his stubbornesse, his checks, his frownes,
(Prythee vn-pin me) haue grace and fauour
Aemi. I haue laid those Sheetes you bad me on the bed
Des. All's one: good Father, how foolish are our minds?
If I do die before, prythee shrow'd me
In one of these same Sheetes.
Aemil. Come, come: you talke
Des. My Mother had a Maid call'd Barbarie,
She was in loue: and he she lou'd prou'd mad,
And did forsake her. She had a Song of Willough,
An old thing 'twas: but it express'd her Fortune,
And she dy'd singing it. That Song to night,
Will not go from my mind: I haue much to do,
But to go hang my head all at one side
And sing it like poore Barbarie: prythee dispatch