Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia and Attendants
Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith: dismiss your attendant there: look it be done.
Exeunt Othello, Lodovico, and Attendants
He says he will return incontinent: He hath commanded me to go to bed, And bade me to dismiss you.
It was his bidding: therefore, good Emilia,. Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu: We must not now displease him.
So would not I my love doth so approve him, That even his stubbornness, his cheques, his frowns— Prithee, unpin me,—have grace and favour in them.
All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds! If I do die before thee prithee, shroud me In one of those same sheets.
My mother had a maid call'd Barbara: She was in love, and he she loved proved 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 to-night 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 Barbara. Prithee, dispatch.
I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.
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; Sing willow, willow, willow;
(Lay by these)
(Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon)
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?)
I call'd my love false love; but what said he then? Sing willow, willow, willow; If I court no women, you'll couch with no men!
So get thee gone, good night: mine eyes do itch: Doth that bode weeping?
I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men! Dost thou in conscience think,—tell me, Emilia,— That there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind?
In troth, I think I should; and undo't when I had done. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty exhibition; but for the whole world,—why, who would not make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for't.
Why the wrong is but a wrong i' the world: and having the world for your labour, tis a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it right.
Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage as would store the world they played for.
But I do think it is their husbands' faults If wives do fall: say that they slack their duties, And pour our treasures into foreign laps, Or else break out in peevish jealousies, Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us, Or scant our former having in despite; Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace, Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell And have their palates both for sweet and sour, As husbands have. What is it that they do When they change us for others? Is it sport? I think it is: and doth affection breed it? I think it doth: is't frailty that thus errs? It is so too: and have not we affections, Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have? Then let them use us well: else let them know, The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.
Good night, good night: heaven me such uses send, Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend!