Suppose a Man does all he can, To unslave himself from a scolding Wife; He can't get out, but hops about, Like a Marry'd bird in the Cage of Life: She on Mischief bent is ne'er content, Which makes the poor Man cry out, Rigid fate, Marriage State, No reprieve but the Grave, oh 'tis hard Condition. Come I'll tell you how this Wife to bow, And quickly bring her to her last; Your Senses please, indulge your ease, But resist no joy and each humour taste, Then let her squal, and tear and bawl, And with whining cry her Eyes out, Take a Flask, double Flask, Whip it up, sip it up, that's your Physician. _A_ SONG. [Music] We merry Wives of _Windsor_, Whereof you make your Play, And act us on your Stages, In _London_ Day by Day: Alass it doth not hurt us, We care not what you do; For all you scoff, we'll sing and laugh, And yet be Honest too. Alass we are good Fellows, We hate Dishonesty; We are not like your City Dames, In sport of Venery: We scorn to Punk, or to be drunk, But this we dare to do; To sit and chat, laugh and be fat, But yet be Honest too. But should you know we _Windsor_ Dames, Are free from haughty Pride: And hate the tricks you Wenches have, In _London_ and _Bankside_: But we can spend, and Money lend, And more than that we'll do, We'll sit and chat, laugh and be fat, And yet be Honest too. It grieves us much to see your wants, Of things that we have store, In Forests wide and Parks beside, And other places more: Pray do not scorn the _Windsor_ Horn, That is both fair and new; Altho' you scold, we'll sing and laugh, And yet be honest too. And now farewel unto you all, We have no more to say; Be sure you imitate us right, In acting of your Play: If that you miss, we'll at you hiss, As others us'd to do; And at you scoff, and sing and laugh, And yet be Honest too. _The_ BATTLE-ROYAL. [Music] A Dean and Prebendary, Had once a new vagary, And were at doubtful strife Sir, Who led the better life Sir, And was the better Man: The Dean he said that truly, Since Bluff was so unruly, He'd prove it to his Face, Sir, That he had the more Grace, Sir, And so the Fight began. When Preb. reply'd like Thunder, And roar'd out, 'twas no wonder, For Gods the Dean had three, Sir, And more by two than he, Sir, Since he had got but one; Now while these two were raging, And in Disputes engaging, The Master of the Charter, Said both had got a Tartar, For Gods that there were none. For all the Books of _Moses_, Were nothing but supposes, And he deserv'd rebuke, Sir, Who wrote the Pentateuch, Sir, 'Twas nothing but a Sham; And as for Father _Adam_, With Mrs. _Eve_ his Madam, And what the Serpent spoke, Sir, Was nothing but a Joke, Sir, And well invented flam.