Othello Recreative: Desdemona

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Othello Recreative: Desdemona

The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree

Sing all a green willow;

Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,

Sing willow, willow;

A piercing hunger, as if from a dagger

Consumes for the sake of my lord.

It is a pain of the bosom

Not familiar to my young body.  

The fresh streams ran by her and murmured her moans;

Sing willow, willow, willow;

Her salt tears fell from her and softened the stones-

Sing willow, willow, willow-

Alas, Cyprus, you are not kind Venice.

Gone is the water, intertwined with its people.

Alas, Cyprus, yours is a cage from which I will never be free-

But I will never soften your stones

For my lord is stronger than itching eyes.

Weeping serves no purpose, and that I know well,

It never pleases the lord, nor does it cleanse as some women think-

Sing all a green willow must be my garland.

Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve-

No, scorn is not the welcome word

Rightful impatience at my incompetence?

Violence for my innocence?

 No. The verse is not mine, nor Barbary’s

Yet any action issued by my lord

Join now!

Is surely wholly justified.

But what is this odd spell about him?

I called my love false love, but what said he then?

Sing willow, willow, willow:

O Lord, Lord, Lord!

Lie with me, lie with me, dost thou remember these sheets?

And the night I swore allegiance to thee?

When the demons were at rest-

Nay, when I was Desdemon; not the monster,

Othello, Othello, wherefore art thou Othello?

If I court moe women, you’ll couch with moe men.

Throughout the play Desdemona ...

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