I know not, Amina
When again on your brightness of smile
My eyes will rest awhile

Nor when again of your softness of voice
My ears will drink by eager of choice

When again into the silver moonshine
You early at night or late venture
As is your wont in weather fine
Astute, awake in bed as doters may, i'll lie
Dreaming of grasping  your velvety texture 

Speaker:    I think this tale would win my daughter too,
            Good Brabantio, take up this mangled matter at the best
            Men do their broken weapons rather use 
            Than their bare hands

(Act 1, Scene Three, Lines 171-174)