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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. Pr'ythee, despatch.
Emil. Shall I go fetch

your night-gown? Des.

No, unpin me here.This Lodovico is a proper man.

Emil. A very handsome man.

And he speaks well. Emil. I know a lady in Venice, who would have walk'd barefoot to Palestine, for a touch of his nether lip.

Des. The poor soul sat sighing 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 streams ran by her, and murmur'd her


Sing willow, &c. Her sait tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;

Lay by these:

Sing willow, willow, willow;

Pr’ythee, 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 it that knocks?

Emil. It is the wind.

Des. I calld my love, false love; but what said he


Sing willow, &c.
If I court mo women, you'll couch with mo men.

So, get thee gone; goo

gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch; Doth that bode weeping? Emil.

'Tis neither here nor there. Des. I have heard it said so.--0, these men,

these men! Dost thou in conscience think,—tell me, Emilia, That there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind? Emil.

There be some such, no question. Des. Would'st thou do such a deed for all the

world? Emil. Why, would not you? Des.

No, by this heavenly light! Emil. Nor I neither by this heavenly light; I might do't as well i'the dark. Des. Would'st thou do such a deed for all the

world? Emil. The world is a huge thing: 'Tis a great

price For a small vice.

Des. Good troth, I think thou would'st not.

Emil. By my 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.

Des. Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong for the whole world.

Emil. 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.

Des. I do not think, there is any such woman.

Emil. Yes, a dozen; and as many To the vantage, as would store the world they

play'd 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

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 to.
Des. Good night, good night: Heaven me such

usage send,
Not to pick bad from bad; but, by bad, mend!


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Enter Iugo and Roderigo. lago. Here, stand behind this bulk; straight will

he come:
Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home;
Quick, quick; fear nothing; I'll be at thy elbow:
It makes us, or it mars us; think on that,
And fix most firin thy resolution.

Rod. Be near at hand; I may miscarry in't.
Iugo. Here, at thy hand; be bold, and take thy

sword. [Retires to a little distance. Rod. I have no great devotion to the deed; And yet he has given me satisfying reasons : 'Tis but a man gone:-forth, my sword; he dies.

[Goes to his stand. Iago. I have rubb’d this young quat almost to

the sense,

And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio,
Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other,
Every way makes my gain: Live Roderigo,
He calls me to a restitution large
Of gold, and jewels, that I bobb’d from him,
As gifts to Desdemona;
It must not be: if Cassio do remain,
He hath a daily beauty in his life,
That makes me ugly; and, besides, the Moor
May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril:
No, he must die:—But so, I hear him coming.

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