I know a maiden fair to see,
Take care!
She can both false and friendly be,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee.

She knows her man, and when you rant and swear,
Can draw you to her with a single hair.

When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye,
The gods that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

But so fair,
She takes the breath of men away
Who gaze upon her unaware.

Woman is often fickle,
Foolish the man who trusts her.

SHE is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

A clever woman is more lethal than a freshly crafted magic wand, and that is why she is fear.

Ye Gods! but she is wondrous fair! For me her constant flame appears;
The garland she hath culled, I wear On brows bald since my thirty years.
Ye veils that deck my loved one rare, Fall, for the crowning triumph's nigh.
Ye Gods! but she is wondrous fair! And I, so plain a man am I!

She wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes.

Tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied her raven ringlets in;
But not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man’s heart within.

She is a mortal danger to all men. She is beautiful without knowing it, and possesses charms that she's not even aware of. She is like a trap set by nature - a sweet perfumed rose in whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush!

And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair, With gold in her garment glittering, And she combs her golden hair.

There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.

Oh, in all things but this,
I know how full of fears a woman is,
And faint at need, and shrinking from the light
Of battle: but once spoil her of her right
In man's love, and there moves, I warn thee well,
No bloodier spirit between heaven and hell.