SCENE XIII.
Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Æmilia, and Attendants.
Lod.
I do beseech you, Sir, trouble your self no further.
Oth.
Oh, pardon me; 'twill do me good to walk.
Lod.
Madam, good night; I humbly thank your ladyship.
Des.
Your Honour is most welcome.
Oth.
Will you walk, Sir? oh Desdemona!—
Des.
My lord.
Oth.
Get you to bed on th' instant, I will be return'd
forthwith; dismiss your attendant there; look, it be
done.
[Exit.
Des.
I will, my Lord.
-- 382 --
Æmil.
How goes it now? he looks gentler than he did.
Des.
He says, he will return incontinent;
And hath commanded me to go to bed,
And bid me to dismiss you.
Æmil.
Dismiss me?
Des.
It was his bidding; therefore, good Æmilia,
Give me my nightly Wearing, and adieu.
We must not now displease him.
Æmil.
I would, you had never seen him!
Des.
So would not I; my love doth so approve him,
That even his stubbornness, his checks, and frowns,
(Pr'ythee, unpin me) have grace and favour in them.
Æmil.
I have laid those sheets, you bad me, on the bed.
Des.
All's one: good father! how foolish are our minds?
If I do die before thee, pr'ythee, shroud me
In one of these same sheets.
Æmil.
Come, come; you talk.
Des.
My Mother had a maid call'd Barbara,
She was in love; 4 note
and he, she lov'd, forsook her,
And she prov'd mad: She had a song of willow,
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've much ado,
But to go hang my head all at one side,
And sing it like poor Barbara. Pry'thee, dispatch.
Æmil.
Shall I go fetch your night-gown?
Des.
No, unpin me here;
This Lodovico is a proper man.
Æmil.
A very handsom man.
-- 383 --
Des.
He speaks well.
Æmil.
I know a lady in Venice would have walk'd
barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.
Des.
The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore-tree,
Sing all a green willow:
[singing.
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh stream ran by her, and murmur'd her moans;
Sing willow, &c.
Her salt tears fell from her, and softned the stones;
Sing willow, &c.
Willow, willow, &c.
(Pr'ythee, hye thee, he'll come anon)
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let no body blame him, his scorn I approve.
Nay that's not next—Hark, who is it that knocks?
Æmil.
It's the wind.
Des.
I call'd my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, &c.
If I court more women, you'll couch with more men.
So, get thee gone, good night; mine eyes do itch,
Doth that boad weeping?
Æmil.
'Tis neither here nor there.
Des.
I have heard it said so; oh these men, these men!
Dost thou in conscience think, tell me, Æmilia,
That there be women do abuse their husbands
In such gross kind?
Æmil.
There be some such, no question.
Des.
Would'st thou do such a deed for all the world?
Æmil.
Why, would not you?
Des.
No, by this heav'nly light.
Des.
Nor I neither, by this heav'nly light:
I might do't as well i'th' dark.
Des.
Would'st thou do such a deed for all the world?
Æmil.
The world's a huge thing,
It is a great price, for a small vice.
-- 384 --
Des.
In troth, I think, thou would'st not.
Æmil.
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 all the whole world; why who would not make
her husband a cuckold, to make him a monarch? I
should venture purgatory for't.
Des.
Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong
For the whole world.
Æmil.
Why, the wrong is but a wrong i'th' world;
and having the world for your labour, 'tis a wrong
in your own world, and you might quickly make
it right.
Des.
I do not think, there is any such woman.
Æmil.
Yes, a dozen; and as many to th' vantage, as
Would store the world they plaid 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 on us; or say, they strike us,
Or scant our former Having in despight;
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 sower,
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 sports? and frailty, as men have?
Then let them use us well; else let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us to.
-- 385 --
Des.
Good night, good night; heaven me such uses send,
Not to pick bad from bad; but by bad, mend!
[Exeunt.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
