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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