Poor Anthony's Complaint
And Lamentation against his miseries of
marriage, meeting with a scolding Wife.
Tune of, Tom the Taylor, the Journey-man Shoomaker, or Billy and Molly.
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WAs ever Man so vext with a Wife
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in Suburbs or in City?
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I live a discontented life,
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alas, the more's the pity:
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I must to bed now I am wed
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before I fill my belly,
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Or else I have a broken head,
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'tis a hard case I tell ye.
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When I would eat she calls me sott,
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and maundering Brath doth bring me,
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So scalding, that is, scolding hot,
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the very steam doth sting me;
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Then you that live a single life
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I wish you to beware,
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For Marriage often breedeth strife,
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and alwaies bringeth care.
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A dismal Peal to me is rung,
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while I rock Bearn in the Cradle,
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Oh! bless me from her scolding tongue,
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and from her basting Ladle.
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Oh that I were a single man
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as I was heretofore sir,
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I would not kiss young Kate or Nan,
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nor never marry more sir.
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My wife doth lug me by the ears
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if I but ask for Bacon,
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And flouts, and taunts, and scolds, & jeers,
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but she must have her Capon:
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She kicks me up and down the house,
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and roars as loud as Thunder,
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While I am silent as a Mouse,
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hold up my hands and wonder.
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ABout the Room she often routs
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for to find fault and quarrel,
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Although I wash the shitten Clouts,
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and clean the Small-Beer Barrel:
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The tongs and irons though I scour,
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and make her fire dayly,
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Yet I have not one quiet hour
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she bums me like a Bayly.
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I drudge and toyl, and am her slave,
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and clean both Pots and Flaggon,
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I cannot tell what she would have
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she is so like a Dragon;
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She makes me weary of my life
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for I can get no quiet,
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The live-long day I live in strife,
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and scolding is my dyet.
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She'l often rise from Spinning-wheel
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to make me dance the Borey,
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And makes me taste so oft Salt-Eele,
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I grow a meer John Dorey,
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She is a Chip of the old block,
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(such Chips are but too common)
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A soure piece of Crab-tree stock,
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a brawling bawling woman.
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One night she went to take the pot,
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and all bepist me sweetly,
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A Leaky Cullender she got,
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which made the bed feel seatly:
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My Dear (quoth I) you piss beside
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upon my Face and Pillow;
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Peace Cuckold, peace, go sleep she cry'd,
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you are a lying fellow.
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I feel 'tis not quite to my thumb,
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it can be no such matter,
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Thus she pist on the bed and room,
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and soak'd me in salt water,
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She forc'd me to rise at night,
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or else to lye in Pickle,
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For I was in a pissen plight
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by this same Madam Fickle.
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By me let others warning take
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when they intend to marry,
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Least they (like me) repent too late,
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and quickly do miscarry.
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The married life is full of strife,
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and full of Horns I fear it;
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Then prithee do not take a wife,
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but take a Glass of Claret.
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