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"A rare example of a virtuous maid in Paris, who was by her own mother procured to be put in prison, thinking thereby to compel her to Popery: but she continued to the end, and finished her life in the fire."

Tune is — O man in desperation.

IT was a lady's daughter,
     Of Paris properly,
Her mother her commanded
     To mass that she should hie:
O pardon me, dear mother,
     Her daughter dear did say
Unto that filthy idol
     I never can obey.

With weeping and wailing
     Her mother then did go,
To assemble her kinsfolks,
     That they the truth may know;
Who being then assembled
     They did this maiden call,
And put her into prison,
     To fear her therewithal. 

But where they thought to fear her,
     She did most strong endure,
Although her years were tender,
     Her faith was firm and sure.
She weigh'd not their allurements,
     She fear'd not fiery flames,
She hop'd thro' Christ her Saviour
     To have immortal fame.

Before the judge they brought her,
     Thinking that she would turn,
And there she was condemned
     In fire for to burn;
Instead of golden bracelets,
     With cords they bound her fast,
My God, grant me with patience
      (Quoth she) to die at last.

And on the morrow after,
     Which was her dying day,
They stript this silly damsel,
     Out of her nice array,
Her chain of gold so costly,
     Away from her they take,
And she again most joyfully
     Did all the world forsake.

Unto the place of torment
     They brought her speedily,
With heart and mind most constant,
     She willing was to die,
But seeing many ladies
     Assembled in that place,
These words she then pronounced,
     Lamenting of their case.

You ladies of this city,
     Mark well my words (quoth she);
Although I shall be burned
     Yet do not pity me,
Yourselves I rather pity,
     And weep for your decay;
Amend your time, fair ladies,
     And do no time delay.

Then came her mother weeping
     Her daughter to behold,
And in her hand she brought her
     A book covered with gold:
Throw hence, quoth she, that idol,
     Convey it from my sight;
And bring me hither my Bible,
     Wherein I take delight.

But my distressed mother
     Why weep you? be content,
You have to death delivered me,
     Most like an innocent:
Tormentor do thy office
     On me when thou think'st best,
But God, my heavenly Father,
     Will bring my soul to rest.

But oh, my aged father,
     Wherever thou dost lie,
Thou know'st not thy poor daughter
     Is ready for to die;
But yet amongst the angels
     In heaven I hope to dwell,
Wherefore, my loving father,
     I bid thee now farewell.

Farewell likewise my mother,
     Adieu my friends also,
God grant that you by others,
     May never feel such woe.
Forsake your superstition,
     The cause of mortal strife,
Embrace God's true religion,
     For which I lose my life.

When all these words were ended,
     Then came the man of death,
Who kindled soon a fire,
     Which stopt this virgin's breath,
To Christ her only Saviour,
     She did her soul commend,
Farewell, quoth she, good people,
     And thus she made an end.



HEARD you not lately of a man,
     That went besides his wits,
And naked through the street he ran,
     Wrapt in his frantic fits?
My honest neighbours, it is I,
     Hark, how the people flout me,
See where the mad man comes, they cry,
     With all the boys about me.

Into a pond stark-naked I ran
     And cast away my cloaths, Sir,
Without the help of any man
     Made shift to get away, Sir,
How I got out I have forgot,
     I do not well remember,
Or whether it was cold or hot,
     In June or in December.

Tom Bedlam's but a sage to me,
     I speak in sober sadness,
For more strange visions do I see
     Than he in all his madness
When first to me this chance befel,
     About the market walkt I,
With capon's feathers in my cap,
     And to myself thus talkt I: 

Did you not see my love of late,
     Like Titan in her glory?
Did you not know she was my mate,
     And I must write her story,
With pen of gold on silver leaf,
     I will so much befriend her,
For why I am of that belief,
     None can so well commend her.

Saw you not angels in her eyes,
     Whilst that she was a speaking?
Smelt you not smells like Paradise
     Between two rubies breaking?
Is not her hair more pure than gold,
     Or finest spider's spinning?
Methinks in her I do behold
     My joys and woes beginning.

Is not a dimple in her cheek,
     Each eye a star that's starting?
Are not all graces install'd in her,
     Each step all joys imparting?
Methinks I see her in a cloud,
     With graces round about her;
To them I call and cry aloud
     I cannot live without her.

Then raging towards the sky I rove,
     Thinking to catch her hand,
O then to Jove I call and cry
     To let her by me stand,
I look behind, and there I see
     My shadow me beguile,
I wish she were as near to me,
     Which makes my worship smile.

There is no creature can compare
     With my beloved Nancy:
Thus I build castles in the air,
     This is the fruit of fancy;
My thoughts mount high above the sky,
     Of none I stand in awe,
Although my body here doth lie
     Upon a pad of straw.

I was as good a harmless youth
     Before base Cupid taught me,
Or his own mother, with her charms
     Into this case had brought me:
Stript and whipt now must I be,
     In Bedlam bound in chains;
Good people, now you all may see,
     What love hath for his pains.

When I was young as others are,
     With gallants did I flourish,
O then I was the properest lad
     That was in all the parish,
The bracelet that I us'd to wear,
     About my arms so tender,
Are turned into iron plates
     About my body slender.

My silken suits do now decay,
     My cups of gold are vanished,
And all my friends do wear away,
     As I from them were banished,
My silver cups are turn'd to earth,
     I'm jeered by every clown;
I was a better man by birth,
     Till fortune cast me down.

I'm out of frame, and temper too,
     Though I'm somewhat chearful,
O this can love and fancy do,
     If that you be not careful:
O set a watch before your eyes,
     Least they betray your heart,
And make you slaves to vanities,
     To act a mad man's part. 

Declare this to each mother's son,
     Unto each honest lad;
Let them not do as I have done,
     Lest they like me grow mad:
If Cupid strike, be sure of this,
     Let reason rule affection,
So shalt thou never do amiss
     By reason's good direction.

I have no more to say to you,
     My keepers now do chide me,
Now must I bid you all adieu,
     God knows what will betide me:
To picking straws now must I go,
     My time in Bedlam spending,
Good folks you your beginning know,
     But do not know your ending.



 [From a very rare Collection of Songs, called — Hunting, Hawking, Dancing, &c.; set to music by Bennet, Piers, and Ravenscroft, 4to.]

By the moon we sport and play,
     With the night begins our day;
As we frisk the dew doth fall,
     Trip it, little Urchins all,
Lightly as the little bee,
     Two by two, and three, by three,
And about go we, go we.



[From the same Collection.]

DARE you haunt our hallow'd green?
None but fairies here are seen.
     Down and sleep,
     Wake and weep,
Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,
That seeks to steal a lover true.
When you come to hear us sing,
Or to tread our fairy ring,
Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,
O thus our nails shall handle you.





Being a looking-glass for rich Misers, wherein they may see (if they be not blind) how much they are to blame for their penurious house-keeping, and likewise an encouragement to those noble­-minded gentry, who lay out a great part of their estates in hospitality, relieving such persons as have need thereof:

Who feasts the poor, a true reward shall find,
Or helps the old, the feeble, lame and blind."

To the tune of — The Delights of the Bottle.

ALL you that to feasting and mirth are inclin'd,
Come here is good news for to pleasure your mind,
Old Christmas is come for to keep open house,
He scorns to be guilty of starving a mouse:
Then come boys, and welcome for diet the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

A long time together he hath been forgot,
They scarce could afford for to hang on the pot;
Such miserly sneaking in England hath been,
As by our forefathers ne'er us'd to be seen;
But now he's returned you shall have in brief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

The times were ne'er good since Old Christmas was fled,
And all hospitality hath been so dead,
No mirth at our festivals late did appear,
They scarcely would part with a cup of March beer;
But now you shall have for the ease of your grief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

The butler and baker, they now may be glad,
The times they are mended, though they have been bad;
The brewer, he likewise may be of good cheer,
He shall have good trading for ale and strong beer,
All trades shall be jolly, and have for relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

The holly and ivy about the walls wind,
And show that we ought to our neighbours be kind,
Inviting each other for pastime and sport,
And where we best fare, there we most do resort,
We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

The cooks shall be busied by day and by night,
In roasting and boiling, for taste and delight;
Their senses in liquour that's nappy they'll steep
Though they be afforded to have little sleep;
They still are employed for to dress us in brief
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Although the cold weather doth hunger provoke,
‘Tis a comfort to see how the chimneys do smoke,
Provision is making for beer, ale and wine;
For all that are willing or ready to dine, 
Then haste to the kitchen, for diet the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

All travellers as they do pass on their way,
At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay
Themselves to refresh, and their horses to rest,
Since that he must be Old Christmas's guest,
Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Now Mock-beggar-hall it no more shall stand empty,
But all shall be furnisht with freedom and plenty,
The hoarding old misers who us'd to preserve
The gold in their coffers, and see the poor starve,
Must now spread their tables, and give them in brief
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

The court and the city, and country are glad,
Old Christmas is come to cheer up the sad,
Broad pieces and guineas about now shall fly,
And hundreds be losers by cogging a die,
Whilst others are feasting with diet the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Those that have no coin at the cards for to play,
May sit by the fire, and pass time away,
And drink off their moisture contented and free,
"My honest good fellow, come, here is to thee,"
And when they are hungry, fall to their relief
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Young gallants and ladies shall foot it along,
Each room in the house to the musick shall throng,
Whilst jolly carouses about they shall pass,
And each country swain trip about with his lass;
Meantime goes the caterer to fetch in the chief
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

The cooks and the scullion, who toil in their frocks,
Their hopes do depend upon their Christmas box:
There is very few that do live on the earth,
But enjoy at this time either profit or mirth;
Yea those that are charged to find all relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Then well may we welcome Old Christmas to town,
Who brings us good cheer, and good liquor so brown,
To pass the cold winter away with delight,
We feast it all day, and we frolick all night,
Both hunger and cold we keep out with relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef:

Then let all curmudgeons who dote on their wealth,
 And value their treasure much more than their health,
Go hang themselves up, if they will be so kind,
Old Christmas with them but small welcome shall find,
They will not afford to themselves without grief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.




A pretty new Ditty, compos'd by an Hoastess that lives in the city
To wrong such an Hoastess it were a great pitty,
By reason she caused this pretty new Ditty."

COME all that love good company,
     And hearken to my ditty,
'Tis of a lovely hostess fine,
     That lives in London city;
Which sells good ale, nappy and stale,
     And always thus sings she,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee,

Her ale is lively, strong and stout,
     If you please but to taste;
It is well brew'd you need not fear,
     But I pray you make no waste;
It is lovely brown, the best in town,
     And always thus sings she,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

The gayest lady with her fan,
     Doth love such nappy ale,
Both city maids and country girls
     That carry the milking pail:
Will take a touch and not think much
     To sing so merrily,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

Both lord and esquire hath a desire
     Unto it night and day,
For a quart or two be it old or new,
     And for it then will pay:
With pipe in hand they may her command
     To sing most merrily,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

You'r welcome all brave gentlemen,
     If you please to come in,
To take a cup I do intend,
     And a health for to begin:
To all the merry jovial blades,
     That will sing for company,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

Here's a health to all brave Englishmen,
     That love this cup of ale;
Let every man fill up his can,
     And see that none do fail:
'Tis very good to nourish the blood,
     And make you sing with me,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.


The bonny Scot will lay a plot
     To get a handsome touch
Of this my ale, so good and stale,
     So will the cunning Dutch:
They will take a part with all their heart,
     To sing this tune with me,
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee. 

It will make the Irish cry A hone!
     If they but take their fill,
And put them all quite out of tune,
     Let them use their chiefest skill,
So strong and stout it will hold out
     In any company,
For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

The Welchman on St. David's day
     Will cry, cots plutter a nail,
Hur will hur ferry quite away,
     From off that nappy ale:
It makes hur foes with hur red nose,
     Hur seldom can agree,
But my ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

The Spaniard stout will have about,
     'Cause he hath store of gold,
Till at the last, he is laid fast,
     My ale doth him so hold:
His poignard strong is laid along,
     Yet he is good company,
For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

There's never a tradesman in England,
     That can my ale deny,
The weaver, tailor and glover
     Delight it for to buy,
Small money they do take away,
     If that they drink with me,
For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

There is smug the honest blacksmith,
     He seldom can pass by,
Because a spark lies in his throat
     Which makes him very dry:
But my old ale tells him his tale,
     So finely we agree,
For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

The brewer, baker and butcher,
     As well as all the rest, 
Both night and day will watch where they
     May find ale of the best:
And the gentle craft will come full oft,
     To drink a cup with me,
For my ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.

So to conclude good fellows all,
     I bid you all adieu,
If that you love a cup of ale,
     Take rather old than new,
For if you come where I do dwell,
     And chance to drink with me, 
My ale was tunn'd when I was young,
     And a little above my knee.



Whose properties and vertues here
Shall plainly to the world appeare
To make you merry all the yeere."

To the tune of Stingo.

COME, and do not musing stand,
     If thou the truth discern;
But take a full cup in thy hand
     And thus begin to learn,
Not of the earth nor, of the air,
     At evening or at morn,
But jovial boys your Christmas keep
     With the little barley-corn.

It is the cunningest alchymist
     That e'er was in the land,
'Twill change your mettle when it list,
     In turning of a hand.
Your blushing gold to silver wan,
     Your silver into brass;
'Twill turn a taylor to a man,
     And a man into an ass.

'Twill make a poor man rich to hang
     A sign before his door,
And those that do the pitcher bang,
     Though rich, 'twill make them poor,
'Twill make the silliest poorest snake
     The King's great porter scorn;
'Twill make the stoutest lubber weak,
     This little barley-corn.

It hath more shifts than Lamb e'er had,
     Or Hocus-pocus too;
It will good fellows shew more sport
     Than Bankes his horse could do:
'Twill play you fair above the board,
     Unless you take good heed,
And fell you, though you were a lord.
     And Justify the deed.

It lends more years unto old age,
     Than e'er was lent by nature;
It makes the poet's fancy rage,
     More than Castalian water.
'Twill make a huntsman chase a fox,
     And never wind his horn;
'Twill cheer a tinker in the stocks,
     This little barley-corn.

It is the only Will o' the Wisp
     Which leads men from the way;
'Twill make the tongue-tied lawyer lisp,
     And nought but hic-up say.
'Twill make the steward droop and stoop,
     His bill he then will scorn,
And at each post cast his reckoning up,
     This little barley-corn.

'Twill make a man grow jealous soon,
     Whose pretty wife goes trim,
And rail at the deceiving moon
     For making horns at him:
'Twill make the maiden's trimly dance,
     And take it in no scorn,
And help them to a friend by chance,
     This little barley-corn.

It is the neatest serving-man,
     To entertain a friend;
It will do more than money can
     All jarring suits to end.
There's life in it, and it is here,
     'Tis here within this cup;
Then take your liquor, do not spare;
     But clear carouse it up.

“The Second Part of the little Barley-Corn,
That cheareth the heart both evening and morne;"

If sickness come this physick take, 
It from your heart will set it,
If fear encroach, take more of it,
     Your heart will soon forget it.
Apollo and the Muses nine
     Do take it in no scorn,
There's no such stuff to pass the time
     As the little barley-corn.

'Twill make a weeping willow laugh,
     And soon incline to pleasure;
'Twill make an old man. leave his staff,
     And dance a youthful measure;
Arid though your clothes be ne'er so bad,
     All ragged, rent, and torn,
Against the cold you may be clad
     With little barley-corn.

'Twill make a coward riot to shrink,
     But be as stout as may be,
'Twill make a man that he shall think
     That Joan's as good as my lady.
It will enrich the palest face,
     And with rubies it adorn,
Yet you shall think it no disgrace,
     This little barley-corn.

'Twill make your gossips merry,
     When they their liquor see,
Hey, we shall ne'er be weary,
     Sweet gossip here's to thee;
'Twill make the country yeoman
     The courtier for to scorn;
And talk of law-suits o'er a can
     With this little barley-corn.

It makes a man that write cannot
     To make you large indentures,
When as he reeleth home at night,
     Upon the watch he ventures;
He cares not for the candle-light,
     That shineth in the horn,
Yet he will stumble the way aright
     This little barley-corn.

'Twill make a miser prodigall,
     And shew himself kind hearted,
'Twill make him never grieve at all
     That from his coin hath parted,
Twill make the shepherd to mistake
     His sheep before a storm,
'Twill make the poet to excell,
     This tittle barley-corn.

It will make young lads to call
     Most freely for their liquor,
'Twill make a young lass take a fall
     And rise again the quicker
'Twill make a man that lie.
     Shall sleep all night profoundly,
And make a man, what'er he be,
     Go about his business roundly.

Thus the barley-corn hath power,
     Even for to change our nature,
And makes a shrew, within an hour,
     Prove a kind-hearted creature:
And therefore here, I say again,
     Let no man take 't in scorn,
That I the virtues do proclaim
     Of the little barley-corn.




Kent Street Clubb."

HERE is a crew of jovial blades
     That lov'd the nut-brown ale:
They in an alehouse chanc'd to meet,
     And told a merry tale:
A bonny Seaman was the first,
     But newly come to town;
And swore that he his guts could burst,
     With ale that was so brown.

See how the jolly Carman be
     Doth the strong liquor prize,
He so long in the alehouse sat,
     That he drank out his eyes:
And groping to get out of door,
      (Sot like) he tumbled down,
 And there he like a madman swore,
     He lov'd the ale so brown.

The nimble Weaver he came in,
     And swore he'd have a little;
To drink good ale it was no sin,
     Though 't made him pawn his shuttle:
Quoth he, I am a gentleman,
     No lusty country clown,
But yet I love, with all my heart,
     The ale that is so brown.

Then next the Blacksmith be came in,
     And said 'twas mighty hot;
He sitting down did thus begin,
     Fair maid, bring me a pot:
Let it be of the very best,
     That none exceeds in town,
I tell you true, and do not jest,
     I love the ale so brown.

The prick-louse Taylor he came in,
     Whose tongue did run so nimble,
And said he would engage for drink
     His bodkin and his thimble:
For though with long thin jaws I look,
     I value not a crown,
So I can have my belly full
     Of ale that is so brown.

The lusty Porter passing by
     With basket on his back,
He said that he was grievous dry,
     And needs would pawn his sack:
His angry wife he did not fear,
     He valued not her frown;
So he had that he lov'd so dear,
     I mean the ale so brown.

The next that came was one of them
     Was of the gentle craft,
And when that he was wet within,
     Most heartily he laugh'd,
Crispin was ne'er so boon as he,
     Tho' some kin to a crown.
And there he sat most merrily
     With ale that was so brown.

But at the last a Barber he
     A mind had for to taste;
He called for a pint of drink
     And said he was in haste:
The drink so pleas'd he tarried there,
     Till he had spent a crown;
'Twas all the money he could spare
     For ale that is so brown.

A Broom-man, as he passed by,
     His morning draughts did lack,
Because that he no money had,
     He pawn'd his shirt from his back:
And said that he without a shirt,
     Would cry brooms up and down,
But yet, quoth he, I'll merry be
     With ale that is so brown.

But when all these together met,
     Oh what discourse was there,
'Twould make one's hair to stand an end,
     To hear how they did swear!
One was a fool and puppy dog,
     The other was a clown,
And there they sat, and swill'd their guts,
     With ale that was so brown.

The landlady they did abuse,
     And call'd her nasty whore,
Quoth she, do you your reckoning pay
     And get you out of door:
Of them she could no money get,
     Which caused her to frown,
But loath they were to leave behind
     The ale that was, so brown.




Every Man in his Humour.

To a pleasant new Tune.

[From a black letter copy printed by Coles, Vere, Wright, and Clarke.]

THROUGH the Royal Exchange as I walked,
     Where gallants in satin did shine:
At midst of the day they parted away
     At several places to dine.

The gentry went to the King's-head,
     The nobles unto the Crown,
The knights unto the Golden Fleece,
     And the ploughman to the Clown.

The clergy will dine at the Mitre,
     The vintners at the Three Tuns,
The usurers to the Devil will go,
     And the friars unto the Nuns.

The ladies will dine at the Feathers,
     The Globe no captain will scorn,
The huntsman will go to the Greyhound below,
     And some townsmen to the Horn. 

The plumber will dine at the Fountain,
     The cooks at the Holy Lamb,
The drunkards, at noon, to the Man in the Moon,
     And the cuckolds to the Ram.

The roarers will dine at the Lion,
     The watermen at the Old Swan,
The bawds will to the Negro go,
     And the whores to the Naked Man.

The keepers will to the White Hart,
     The mariners unto the Ship,
The beggars they must take their way
     To the Eggshell and the Whip.

The farriers will to the Horse,
     The blacksmith unto the Lock,
The butchers to the Bull will go,
     And the carmen to Bridewell Dock.

The fishmongers unto the Dolphin,
     The bakers to the Cheat Loaf,
The turners unto the Ladle will go,
     Where they may merrily quaff.

The taylor will dine at the Sheers,
     The shoemakers will to the Boot,
The Welshmen they will take their way,
     And dine at the sign of the Goat.

The hosiers will dine at the Leg,
     The drapers at the sign of the Brush,
The fletchers to Robin Hood will go,
     And the bargemen to the Scoop.

The carpenters will dine at the Axe,
     The colliers will dine at the Sack,
Your fruiterer he to the Cherry-Tree,
     Good fellows no liquor will lack.

The goldsmiths to the Three Cups,
     Their money they count as dross,
Your Puritan to the Pewter Can,
     And your Papists to the Cross.

The weavers will dine at the shuttle,
     The glovers will unto the Glove,
The maidens all to the Maidenhead,
     And true lovers unto the Dove.

The saddlers will dine at the Saddle,
     The painters to the Green Dragon,
The Dutchman will go to the sign of the Vrow,
     Merit each man may drink his flaggon.

The chandlers will dine at the Scales,
     The salters at the sign of the Bag,
The porters take pain at the Labour-in-vain,
     And the horse-courser to the White Nag,

Thus every man in his humour,
     From north unto the south,
But he that hath no money in his purse,
     May dine at the sign of the Mouth.

The swaggerers will dine at the Fencers,
     But those that have lost their wits,
With Bedlam Tom let there be there home,
     And the Drum the drummer best fits.

The cheater will dine at the Chequer,
     The pick-pocket at a blind alehouse,
Till taken and tried, up Holborn they ride,
     And make their end at the gallows.




The Patient Man's Woe.
Declaring the misery and the great paine,
By his unquiet wife he doth dayly sustaine,"

To the tune of Cuckolds all arowe.

[From a black letter copy, printed for Henry Gosson.]

COME bachelors and married men,
     And listen to my song,
And I will shew you plainly then
     The injury and wrong,
That constantly I do sustain
     By the unhappy life,
The which does put me to great plain.
     By my unquiet wife.

She never linnes her bawling,
     Her tongue it is so loud,
But always she'll be railing
     And will not be controuled:
For she the breeches still will wear,
     Although it breeds my strife,
If I were now a bachelor,
     I'd never have a wife.

Sometimes I go in the morning
     About my daily work,
My wife she will be snorting, 
And in her bed she'll lurk,
Untill the chimes do go at eight,
     Then she'll begin to wake;
Her morning's draught well spiced straight,
     To clear her eyes she'll take.

As soon as she is out of bed,
     Her looking-glass she takes,
So vainly is she daily led,
     Her morning's work she makes,
In putting  on her brave attire,
     That fine and costly be,
While I work hard in dirt and mire
     Alack what remedy?

Then she goes forth a gossiping,
     Amongst her own comrades,
And then she falls a boosing
     With her merry blades:
When I come from my labour hard,
     Then she'll begin to scold,
And call me rogue without regard,
     Which makes my heart full cold.

When I come home into my house,
     Thinking to take my rest;
Then she'll begin me to abuse,
     Before she did but jest:
With out, you rascal, you have been
     Abroad to meet your whore,
Then she takes up a cudgel's end,
     And breaks my head full sore.

When I for quietness sake desire,
     My wife for to be still,
She will not grant what I require
     But swears she'll have her will:
Then if I chance to heave my hand,
     Straightway she'll murder cry,
Then judge all men that here do stand,
     In what a case am I.


And if a friend by chance me call,
     To drink a pot of beer,
Then she'll begin to curse and brawl,
     And fight, and scratch, and tear:
And swears unto my work she'll send
     Me straight without delay,
Or else with the same cudgel's end,
     She will me soundly pay.

And if I chance to sit at meat
     Upon some holiday,
She is so sullen she'll not eat,
     But vex me ever and ay;
She'll pout and lower, and curse and bann,
     This is the weary life,
That I do lead, poor harmless man,
     With my most dogged wife.

Then is not this a piteous cause,
     Let all men now it try,
And give their verdicts by the laws
     Between my wife and I,
And judge the cause who is to blame,
     I'll to their judgment stand,
And be contented with the same,
     And put thereto my hand.

If I abroad go any where,
     My business for to do,
Then will my wife anon be there,
     For to encrease my woe:
Straightway she such a noise will make,
     With her most wicked tongue,
That all her mates her part to take
     About me soon will throng.

Thus am I now tormented still,
     With my most cruel wife,
All through her wicked tongue so ill,
     I am weary of my life:
I know not truly what to do,
     Nor how myself to mend;
This lingering life doth breed my woe,
     I would 't were at an end.

O that some harmless honest man,
     Whom death did so befriend,
To take his wife from off his hand,
     His sorrows for to end:
Would change with me to rid my care,
     And take my wife alive,
For his dead wife unto his share,
     Then I would hope to thrive.

But so it likely will not be,
     That is the worst of all,
For to encrease my daily woe,
     And for to breed my fall:
My wife is still most froward bent,
     Such is my luckless fate,
There is no man will be content
     With my unhappy state.

Thus to conclude, and make an end
     Of these my verses rude,
I pray all wives for to amend,
     And with peace to be endued:
Take warning all men by the life,
     That I sustained long,
Be careful how you choose a wife,
     And so I'll end my song.

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