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My mother had a maid called Barbary

My mother had a maid called Barbary.
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 expressed 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.
Shall I go fetch your nightgown?
No, unpin me here.
This Lodovico is a proper man.
A very handsome man.
He speaks well.
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 murmured her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened 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?
It's the wind.

I called my love false love, but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow.
If I court more women, you'll couch with more men. —

So, get thee gone. Good night. Mine eyes do itch;
Doth that bode weeping?
‘Tis neither here nor there.
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?
There be some such, no question.
Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?
Why, would not you?
No, by this heavenly light!
Nor I neither, by this heavenly light.
I might do ‘t as well i' th' dark.
Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?
The world's a huge thing. It is a great price
for a small vice.
In troth, I think thou wouldst not.
In troth, I think I should, and undo ‘t when I
had done it. 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— ‘Uds pity! Who
would not make her husband a cuckold to make
him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for ‘t.
Beshrew me if I would do such a wrong
for the whole world!
Why, the wrong is but a wrong i' th' world;
and, having the world for your labor, 'tis a wrong in
your own world, and you might quickly make it right.
I do not think there is any such woman.
Yes, a dozen; and as many to th' 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. God me such uses send,
Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend.
They exit.

Act 4
Scene 3
Line 28

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