The Catologue of Contented Cuckolds:
OR, A
Loving Society of Confessing Brethren of the Forked Order, etc. who being met together in a Tavern,
declar'd each Man his Condition, resolving to be contented, and drown'd Melancholly in a Glass of Necktar.
To the Tune of, Fond Boy, etc. Or, Love's a sweet Passion, etc.
|
FUll ten honest Tradesmen did happen to meet,
|
In a Tavern, it seems, about Leaden-hall-street;
|
One a Brewer, a Baker, a Cook, and a Tayler;
|
With a Turner, a Gold-smith, a Merchant, a Sayler;
|
Nay, a Docter, a Surgeon which opens the vein:
|
These was good honest Tradesmen, all Cuckolds in grain.
|
My Wife, quoth the Brewer, is charming and fair,
|
She will ramble abroad, but I never know where;
|
Yet at midnight sometimes she returns with a Spark;
|
Nay, I sometimes have found her at Put in the dark:
|
Yet I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
|
I will now be contented, and never repine.
|
The Baker, he cry'd, There is Robin my man,
|
He will play with his Dame, let me do what I can;
|
Once I happen'd to catch him in Bed by her side,
|
You'd a laught to have seen how I liqur'd his hide:
|
But I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
|
I will now be contented, and never repine.
|
The Cook he cry'd out, I am none of the least,
|
For when ever I go to a Dinner, or Feast,
|
There is brawny young William, the Poulterer's Man,
|
He will kiss my sweet Wife for a Sop in the Pan:
|
Yet I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
|
I will now be contented, and never repine.
|
The Tayler sat sighing and cratching his ears.
|
Quoth he, I have been Cuckold'd this three or four Years,
|
By a Saylsman who gave my sweet wife her Silk-gown,
|
When he comes up my stairs, I am forc'd to go down:
|
It cannot be avoided, I'll swear by this Wine,
|
But I'll now be contented, and never repine.
|
In troth, quoth the Turner, 'tis my very Case,
|
For when her Gallant comes I am forc'd to give place;
|
To my work straight I go where I labour and toyl.
|
And I leave him to turn up my wife the mean while;
|
But my pocket with Genea's of Gold he doth line,
|
Therefore I'll be contented, and never repine.
|
O, then, said the Goldsmith pray hear my complaint,
|
Sirs, I marry'd a Quaker she seem'd like a Saint,
|
Yet a Horn to the World I have reason to blow,
|
O the innocent Lamb has a dark way to go:
|
Yet I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
|
I will now be contented, and never repine.
|
The Merchant he cry'd, When I go to the Change,
|
With a Master of Musick my Lady will range,
|
To the Tavern, and thereon her Lute he must play,
|
She may dance, but I'm sure I the Musick must pay:
|
With my Treasure his pockets she often will line,
|
Yet contented I'll be, 'tis in vain to repine.
|
The Saylor cry'd, Brothers, hear me if you please,
|
Three or four Years together I plough'd the rough Seas,
|
In my absence my Wife has a daughter and a Son,
|
And I found a great Panyer as big as a Tun:
|
I cry'd out, My sweet Nancy 'faith this is fine?
|
Be contented, said she, tis in vain to repine.
|
Come, come, said the Docter, the best of us all
|
Cannot be our Wives Keepers, they are subject to fall;
|
Friends, by woful Experence I speak it indeed,
|
I have one that will help a kind Friend at his need:
|
Yet I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
|
I will now be contented, never repine.
|
The Surgeon he cry'd, Sirs, I'll tell you a Jest;
|
For I'm sure I am a Cuckold as well as the rest:
|
Once I follow'd my Wife and her Spark to Horn-fair;
|
Where I took them both napping as Moss catcht his Mars.
|
He was letting her blood near the Leg and the Loyn;
|
I was almost Horn-mad, I began to repine.
|
Since we are ten Cuckolds here all on a row,
|
We will drink each a Bottle, before we do go,
|
For to drown Malancholy in Liquor of Life;
|
He's a Fool that will weep for the Sins of his Wife;
|
Let us tipple Canary, and never complain
|
There is bette than we that Cuckolds in Grain.
|
|
|
|
|
|