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Thrice Toss Those Oaken Ashes In The Air

Thrice toss those 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 those poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,

These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar,

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.