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.