Thrice Toss Those 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 Those 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 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.