A’ was a merry man⁠—took up the child: “Yea,” quoth he, “dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; Wilt thou not, Jule?” and, by my holidame, The pretty wretch left crying and said “Ay.” To see, now, how a jest shall come about! I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I never should forget it: “Wilt thou not, Jule?” quoth he; And, pretty fool, it stinted and said “Ay.”

Yes, madam: yet I cannot choose but laugh, To think it should leave crying and say “Ay.” And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone; A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly: “Yea,” quoth my husband, “fall’st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; Wilt thou not, Jule?” it stinted and said “Ay.”

Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed: An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.