I bear a basket lined with grass;
I am so light, I am so fair, 
That men must wonder as I pass 
And at the basket that I bear, 
Where in a newly-drawn green litter
Sweet flowers I carry,?sweets for bitter. 

Lilies I shew you, lilies none, 
None in Caesar?s gardens blow,? 
And a quince in hand,?not one 
Is set upon your boughs below;
Not set, because their buds not spring; 
Spring not, ?cause world is wintering. 

But these were found in the East and South 
Where Winter is the clime forgot.? 
The dewdrop on the larkspur?s mouth
O should it then be quench`d not? 
In starry water-meads they drew 
These drops: which be they? stars or dew? 

Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze: 
Rather it is the sizing moon.
Lo, linkèd heavens with milky ways! 
That was her larkspur row.?So soon? 
Sphered so fast, sweet soul??We see 
Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.