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.

– Thomas Bastard. De puero balbutiente