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.
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