No More Learning

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 nightgown?
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. [Sings.
]

"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 be these-

[Sings. ] "Sing willow, willow, willow-"

Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon-
[Sings. ] "Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve-"

Nay, that's not next. Hark, who is't that knocks?
EMILIA. It's the wind.
DESDEMONA. [Sings. ]

"I call'd my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow.
If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men-"

So get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch;
Doth that bode weeping?
EMILIA. 'Tis neither here nor there.