The Witch.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair!
Rapunzel.
Is it not true that every day
She climbeth up the same strange way,
Her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay,
Over my golden hair?
The Prince.
And left me there alone,
To think on what they said:
'Thou art a king's own son,
'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.'
The Witch.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair!
Rapunzel.
When I undo the knotted mass,
Fathoms below the shadows pass
Over my hair along the grass.
O my golden hair!