The willow song

Desdemona

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:--

Sing willow, willow, willow;

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?

Emilia:

It's the wind.]

Desdemona:

[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!]