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Poem	Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss Your little sister dear; I must not have such things as this, And noisy quarrels here. What! little children scratch and fight, That ought to be so mild; Oh! Mary, it's a shocking sight To see an angry child. I can't imagine, for my part, The reason for your folly; She did not do you any hurt By playing with your dolly. See, see, the little tears that run Fast from her watery eye: Come, my sweet innocent, have done, 'Twill do no good to cry. Go, Mary, wipe her tears away, And make it up with kisses: And never turn a pretty play To such a pet as this is.
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