Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss
Your little sister dear;
I must not have such things as this,
Nor noisy quarrels hear.
What! little children scold and fight,
That ought to be so mild;
O Mary, 'tis a shocking sight
To see an angry child.
I can't imagine, for my part,
The reason of your folly:
As if she did you any hurt,
By playing with your dolly!
See, how the little tears do 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.