Thomas Campion (1567–1620)

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 murmur soft, “She will or she will 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 my 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.