At this good Tray grew very red, / And growled and bit him till he bled.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head

Anything to me is sweeter / Than to see Shock-headed Peter.

But Fidgety Phil / He won't sit still; / He wriggles / And giggles, / and then, I declare, / Swings backwards and forwards, / And tilts up his chair.

Take the soup away! / O take the nasty soup away! / I won't have any soup today.

Now tall Agrippa lived close by, - / So tall he almost touched the sky; / He had a mighty inkstand too, / In which a great goose-feather grew.