Desdemona Monologue from Othello

From Othello by William Shakespeare

female · melancholic · 51 sec

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 murmur’d her moans, Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d 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?

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