Classic Poem

Oft have we seen upon our Shakespeare's stage
How cruel husbands vent their jealous rage.
But lo, this modern Moor! how could he dare
To cut the tresses of my lady's hair
And to the grim farce give a tragic end
Forcing her limbs beneath the lash to bend?
A jealous madman! Nay, what harm did she
To take compassion on my misery.
And now to glut the fury of his spite
The knave has torn my darling from my sight.
A true Othello he; and Jacques am I
Who can no more my Juliet espy.