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Thomas Campion

The Third Booke of Ayres


XVIII. Thrice tosse these Oaken

       1  Thrice tosse these Oaken ashes in the ayre;
       Thrice sit thou mute in this inchanted chayre :
       And thrice three times tye vp this true loues knot,
       And murmur soft shee will, or shee will not. 

       2  Goe burn these poys'nous weedes in yon blew fire,
       These Screech-owles fethers and this prickling bryer,
       This Cypresse gathered at a dead mans graue ;
       That all thy feares and cares an end may haue.

       3  Then come you Fayries, dance with me a round,
       Melt her hard hart with your melodious sound :
       In vaine are all the charms I can deuise,
       She hath an Arte to breake them with her eyes.



Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer