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.