A fine Thing.

Who am I with noble face,

Shining in a clear blue place?

If to look at me you try,

I shall blind your little eye.

When my noble face I shew,

Over yonder mountain blue,

All the clouds away do ride,

And the dusky night beside.

Then the clear wet dews I dry,

With the look of my bright eye;

And the little birds awake,

Many a merry tune to make.

Cowslips then, and hare-bells blue,

And lily-cups their leaves undo,

For they shut themselves up tight,

All the dark and foggy night.

Then the busy people go,

Every one his work unto;

Little girl, when yours is done,

Guess, if I am not the sun.