Methinks ‘tis pretty sport to hear a child,

Rocking a word in mouth yet undefiled.

The tender racket rudely plays the sound,

Which weakly banded cannot back rebound,

And the soft air the softer roof does kiss,

With a sweet dying and a pretty miss,

Which hears no answer yet from the white rank

Of teeth, not risen from their coral bank.

The alphabet is searched for letters soft,

To try a word before it can be wrought,

And when it slides forth, it goes as nice,

As when a man does walk upon the ice.