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