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.