Desdemona
 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?

Emilia:
 It's the wind.

Desdemona:
 I call'd my love false love; but what said he then? 
 Sing willow, willow, willow:
 If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men!