Thrice Toss These Oaken Ashes in the Air
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 murmer soft "She will, or will she not."
Go burn these 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 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
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