"And so you do not like to spell,
Mary, my dear, oh, very well:
'Tis dull and troublesome,' you say,
And you had rather be at play.
"Then bring me all your books again;
Nay, Mary, why do you complain?
For as you do not choose to read,
You shall not have your books, indeed.
"So, as you wish to be a dunce,
Pray go and fetch me them at once;
For if you will not learn to spell,
'Tis vain to think of reading well.
"Do you not think you'll blush to own
When you become a woman grown,
Without one good excuse to plead,
That you have never learnt to read?"
"Oh, dear mamma," said Mary then,
"Do let me have my books again;
I'll not fret any more indeed,
If you will let me learn to read."