| Alas! and is domestic strife, That sorest ill of human life, A plague so little to be feared, As to be wantonly incurr'd? |
| My numbers this day she had sung, And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue, Could infuse into numbers of mine. |
| Here we see a common game, Of which most boys are fond; Some hit the ring with nicest aim, While others go beyond. |
| Little sister come away, And in the garden let us play; But do not pluck the pretty flowers, Because you know they are not ours. |
