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.
