Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I had past.
I ran it through, e’en from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth ’scapes, in the imminent deadly breach,
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it all my travel’s history.
* * * * *
All these to hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence,
Whichever as she could with haste despatch,
She’d come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse. Which, I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof, by parcels, she had something heard,
But not distinctly.
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I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.
She swore in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange;
’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful;
She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished
That heaven had made her such a man.
She thanked me,
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake;
She loved me for the dangers I had passed;
And I loved her that she did pity them:
This is the only witchcraft which I’ve used.
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