Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss
Your little sister dear;
I must not have such things as this,
Nor noisy quarrels here.
What! little children scold and fight,
That ought to be so mild:
Oh! 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, see the little tears that run
So quickly from her 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.