Colleen's blog: "Thoughts"

Desdemona, (singing)

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 murmured her moans,

Sing willow, willow, willow;

Her salt tears fell from her, and softened her 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.

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

Sing willow, willow, willow.

If I court more women, you'll couch with more men.--

So, get thee gone. Good night. Mine eyes do itch; Doth that bode weeoping? (Othello)