For works with similar titles, see
Child.
| A CHILD.
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A child's a plaything for an hour;
Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space;
Then tire and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itself
All seasons could control;
That would have mocked the sense of pain
Out of a grievèd soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways,
Then life and all shall cease.
Charles Lamb.
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