EMILIA.
Come, come, you talk.
DESDEMONA.
My mother had a maid call’d Barbary,
She was in love, and he she lov’d prov’d mad
And did forsake her. She had a song of “willow”,
An old thing ’twas, but it express’d her fortune,
And she died singing it. That song tonight
Will not go from my mind. I have much to do
But to go hang my head all at one side
And sing it like poor Barbary. Prithee dispatch.
EMILIA.
Shall I go fetch your night-gown?
DESDEMONA.
No, unpin me here.
This Lodovico is a proper man.
EMILIA.
A very handsome man.
DESDEMONA.
He speaks well.
EMILIA.
I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.
DESDEMONA.
[Singing.]
The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow.
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d the stones;—
Lay by these:—
[Sings.]
Sing willow, willow, willow.