That works to the man i' the moon!

Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly;

And how the little fairies do dance and leap so lightly,

And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

In conceit like Phaeton

I'll mount Phoebus' chair

Having ne'er a hat on,

All my hair a-burning

In my journeying;