Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnishd tale deliver Of my whole course of love.
Her father loved me; oft invited me; Still questiond me the story of my life, From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have passed. I ran it through, even 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 i the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence And portance in my travels history; Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak,such was the process; And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear1 Would Desdemona seriously incline.
And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth sufferd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs; She swore, in faith, t was strange, t was passing strange, T was pitiful, t was wondrous pitiful; She wishd she had not heard it, yet she wishd That Heaven had made her such a man; she thankd me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,