Emilia
Come, come you talk.
Desdemona
My mother had a maid call’d Barbara:
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 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. Prithee, dispatch.
Emilia
Shall I go fetch your night-gown?
Desdemona
No, unpin me here.
This Lodovico is a proper man.