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.
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