Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair;
Then thrice-three times tie up this true love's knot,
And murmur soft 'She will or she will not.'
Go burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling brier,
This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave,
That all thy fears and cares an end may have.
Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round!
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound!-
In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.
THOMAS CAMPION
