I am called Chyldhood, in play is all my mynde, To cast a coyte, a cokstele, and a ball. A toppe can I set, and dryve it in his kynde. But would to god these hatefull bookes all, Were in a fyre brent to pouder small. Than myght I lede my lyfe alwayes in play: Whiche lyfe god sende me to myne endyng day. |