Sometime I goe i' th' morning about my dayly worke, My wife she will be snorting, and in her bed she'le lurke; Untill the Chimes doe goe at Eight, then she'le begin to wake, Her mornings draught well spiced straight, to cleare her eyes she'le take. As soon as shee is out of bed, her Looking Glass she takes, So vainely is she dayly led, her mornings worke she makes; In putting on her brave atyre, that fine and costly be, Whilst I worke hard in durt and mire, alacke what remedy. Then she goes forth a Gossiping, amongst her own Comrades, And then she falls a bowsing[F. 157] with her merry blades: When I come from my labour hard, then shee'le begin to scould, And calls me Rogue without regard, which makes my heart full cold. When I for quietnesse sake desire, my wife for to be still; She will not grant what I require, but sweares shee'le have her will; Then if I chance to heave my hand, straightway she'le 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 drinke a pot of Beere; Then she'le begin to curse and brall, and fight and scratch and teare: And sweares unto my worke she'le send me straight without delay, Or else with the same Cudgels end, shee will me soundly pay. And if I chance to sit at meate upon some holy day, She is so sullen she will not eate, but vexe me ever and aye: She'le pout, and loure, and curse and bann, this is the weary life, That I do leade, poore harmlesse man, with my most dogged wife. Then is not this a pitteous Cause, let all men now it trie, And give their verdits by the Lawes, betweene my wife and I: And judge the Cause who is to blame, Ile to their Judgement stand, And be contented with the same and put thereto my hand. If I abroad goe any where, my businesse for to doe, Then will my Wife anone 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 thronge. Thus am I now tormented still, with my most wicked Wife, All through her wicked tongue so ill I am weary of my life: I know not truely what to doe, nor how myselfe to mend: This lingring life doth breede my woe, I would 'twere at an ende. O that some harmlesse honest man, whom Death did so befriend, To take his Wife from of his hand, his sorrowes 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 dayly woe and for to breed my fall: My wife is still most froward bent, such is my lucklesse fate, There is no man will be content, with my unhappy state.