When I see poor Phoebe going about with drooping eye, and her head hanging "all o' one side," I cannot help calling to mind the pathetic little picture drawn by Desdemona:- My mother had a maid, called Barbara; She was in love; and he she loved proved 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.
"Bracebridge Hall, or The Humorists"
Washington Irving
Helen had never been abroad, and to her my stories were like those Othello told to Desdemona.
"I Walked in Arden"
Jack Crawford
He came in the dead o' night and smothered the Desdemona with a pillow.
"The Master of the Ceremonies"
George Manville Fenn