And in foure minutes grew so fast, That he became so tall As was the plowmans thumbe in height, And so they did him call Tom Thumbe, the which the Fayry-Queene There gave him to his name, Who, with her traine of Goblins grim, Unto his christning came. Whereas she cloath'd him richly brave, In garments fine and faire, Which lasted him for many yeares In seemely sort to weare. His hat made of an oaken leafe, His shirt a spiders web, Both light and soft for those his limbes That were so smally bred; His hose and doublet thistle downe, Togeather weav'd full fine; His stockins of an apple greene, Made of the outward rine; His garters were two little haires, Pull'd from his mothers eye, His bootes and shooes a mouses skin, There tand most curiously. Thus, like a lustie gallant, he Adventured forth to goe, With other children in the streets His pretty trickes to show. Where he for counters, pinns, and points, And cherry stones did play, Till he amongst those gamesters young Had loste his stocke away, Yet could he soone renew the same, When as most nimbly he Would dive into their cherry-baggs, And there partaker be, Unseene or felt by any one, Untill a scholler shut This nimble youth into a boxe, Wherein his pins he put. Of whom to be reveng'd, he tooke (In mirth and pleasant game) Black pots, and glasses, which he hung Upon a bright sunne-beam. The other boyes to doe the like, In pieces broke them quite; For which they were most soundly whipt, Whereat he laught outright. And so Tom Thumbe restrained was From these his sports and play, And by his mother after that Compel'd at home to stay. Whereas about a Christmas time, His father a hog had kil'd, And Tom would see the puddings made, For fear they should be spil'd. He sate upon the pudding-boule, The candle for to hold; Of which there is unto this day A pretty pastime told: For Tom fell in, and could not be For ever after found, For in the blood and batter he Was strangely lost and drownd. Where searching long, but all in vaine, His mother after that Into a pudding thrust her sonne, Instead of minced fat. Which pudding of the largest size Into the kettle throwne, Made all the rest to fly thereout, As with a whirle-wind blowne. For so it tumbled up and downe, Within the liquor there, As if the devill had been boiled; Such was his mothers feare, That up she took the pudding strait. And gave it at the door Unto a tinker, which from thence In his blacke budget bore. From which Tom Thumbe got loose at last And home return'd againe: Where he from following dangers long In safety did remaine. Now after this, in sowing time, His father would him have Into the field to drive his plow, And thereupon him gave A whip made of a barly straw To drive the cattle on: Where, in a furrow'd land new sowne, Poore Tom was lost and gon.