WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: Othello Remember to support your ideas with details from the writing. Read this passage carefully, and then answer the question that follows it: Othello: Will you walk, sir? O, Desdemona! Desdemona: My lord? Othello: Get you to bed on th' instant; I will be return'd forthwith. Dispatch your attendant there. Look't be done. Desdemona: I will, my lord. [Exeunt OTHELLO, LODOVICO, and Attendants.] Emilia: How goes it now? He looks gentler than he did. Desdemona: He says he will return incontinent. He hath commanded me to go to bed, And bade me to dismiss you. Emilia: Dismiss me! Desdemona: It was his bidding; therefore, good Emilia, Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu. We must not now displease him. Emilia: I would you had never seen him. Desdemona: So would not I: my love doth so approve him That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns – Prithee unpin me have grace and favour in them. Emilia: I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed. Desdemona: All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds! If I do die before thee, prithee shroud me In one of these same sheets. Emilia: Come, come, you talk. Desdemona: My mother had a maid call'd Barbary: She was in love; and he she lov'd prov'd 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 Barbary. Prithee dispatch. Emilia: Shall I go fetch your night-gown? Desdemona: No, unpin me here. This Lodovico is a proper man. Emilia: A very handsome man. Desdemona: He speaks well. Emilia: I know a lady in Venice would have walk'd barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip. Desdemona [Sings.]: 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 soft'ned the stones; Sing willow – Lay by these – 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? Emilia: It is the wind. [from Act 4, Scene 3]