If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.
And too soon Marred are those so early Made.
His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.
And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night.