I'm known for my planks, though I never set sail. I can join you in marriage, but I'm not a minister. My work is often measured, but I don't keep time. What am I?

I dance upon the bridge of your nose but I have no legs. I am a tiny drop of gold kissed by the sun, yet I cannot be spent. The more you chase the summer sky, the more of us appear to play.

Arr, matey! When a plank be defiant, I be the captain's right hand that tames the rebel wood. With a swing as fierce as a stormy sea, I send nails to Davy Jones' locker.

I am spun before the wings take flight, a fragile cradle wrapped in white. Yet from those threads, so soft and fine, are woven garments fit to shine.

What do you call a toy spinning on a wannabe mountain?