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.