University of Virginia Library


154

XVIII.

[Thrice tosse these Oaken ashes in the ayre]

Thrice tosse these Oaken ashes in the ayre,
Thrice sit thou mute in this inchanted chayre;
Then thrice three times tye up this true loves knot,
And murmur soft, shee will, or shee will not.
Goe burne these poys'nous weedes in yon blew fire,
These Screech-owles fethers, and this prickling bryer,
This Cypresse gathered at a dead mans grave:
That all thy feares and cares an end may have.
Then come, you Fayries, dance with me a round,
Melt her hard hart with your melodious sound.
In vaine are all the charmes I can devise:
She hath an Arte to breake them with her eyes.