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.