Star, that gives a gracious dole, What am I to choose?
Oh, will it be a shriven soul, Or little buckled shoes?
Shall I wish a wedding-ring, Bright and thin and round,
Or plead you send me covering- A newly spaded mound?
Gentle beam, shall I implore Gold, or sailing-ships,
Or beg I hate forevermore A pair of lying lips?
Swing you low or high away, Burn you hot or dim;
My only wish I dare not say- Lest you should grant me him.
