Xxiv

Silently she’s combing, Combing her long hair, Silently and graciously, With many a pretty air.

The sun is in the willow leaves And on the dappled grass, And still she’s combing her long hair Before the looking-glass.

I pray you, cease to comb out, Comb out your long hair, For I have heard of witchery Under a pretty air,

That makes as one thing to the lover Staying and going hence, All fair, with many a pretty air And many a negligence.