Thrice tosse these Oaken ashes

Thrice tosse these Oaken ashes in the ayre;

Thrice sit thou mute in this inchanted chayre:

And thrice three times tye up this true loves knot,

And murmur soft shee will, or shee will not.

Goe burn these poys'nous weedes in yon blew fire,

These Screech-owles fethers, and this prockling bryer,

This Cypresse gathered at a dead mans grave;

That all my feares and cares an end may have.

Then come you Fayries, dance with me a round,

Melt her hard hart with yout melodious sound:

In vaine alre all the charms I can devise,

She hath an Arte to breake them with her eyes.