Epigram 36 (Me thinkes tis pretie sport to heare a ...)

Me thinkes tis pretie sport to heare a childe,
Rocking a worde in mouth yet vndefild.
The tender racket rudely playes the sound,
Which weakely banded cannot backe rebound,
And the soft ayre the softer roofe doth kisse,
With a sweete dying and a pretie misse.
Which heares no answere yet from the white ranke
Of teeth, not risen from their corall banke.
The alphabet is searcht for letters soft,
To trye a worde before it can be wrought.
And when it slideth forth, is goes as nice,
As when a man doth walke vpon the yce.