The Hen-peckt Cuckold: Being his sorrowful Lamentation for the Cruelty of a Wanton Wife.
Tune of, Guinea wins her. Licensed according to Order.
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YOung Gallants, that are single,
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be careful how you Marry,
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Least sighs with tears you mingle,
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when you like me miscarry:
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Unto the sower apple-tree
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I am bound, now farewel liberty,
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The grief I undergo,
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None but my self doth know,
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She does the wanton play,
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I'm Cuckold night and day,
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Yet I must nothing say,
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O this Wife, she makes me weary of my life.
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I marry'd her for beauty,
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and faith I think I'm fitted,
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She scorns to own her duty,
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am I not to be pitty'd;
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A man of fourscore pounds a year,
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Yet kind Neighbours I am ne're the near,
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For if I meet a friend,
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I ha'n't a Groat to spend,
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but she'll in Taverns meet
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her Gallants, whom she'll treat,
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while I want food to eat,
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O this Wife, will make me weary of my life.
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Sometimes I blow the fire,
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with an intent to ease her,
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Believe me I'm no lyar,
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the Devil cannot please her,
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Perhaps something may fall awry,
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Then she'll straightways make the bellows fly,
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or wring me by the ears,
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she'll not regard my tears,
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for being all alone,
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I dare not sigh or groan,
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nor say my soul's my own,
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O this Wife, will make me weary of my life.
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One morning she was rising,
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and I was waiting on her,
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A passion straight she flys in,
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for faults which I had done her,
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Because her slippers I forgot,
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A[t] my head she threw the chamber-pot,
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so dreadful was the blow,
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that blood began to flow,
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and I aloud did roar,
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but my tormenter swore,
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she'd give me ten times more,
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O this Wife, will make me weary of my life.
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There came a Linnen-Draper,
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one morning to embrace her,
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And I began to vapour,
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how I would scourge and lace her,
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He swore I should not them molest,
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And with that he lockt me in a chest,
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where close confin'd I lay,
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while he and she did play,
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their sport they did renew,
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which made my heart to rue,
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such Queens there is but few,
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Sure this Wife, will make me weary of my life.
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There's lusty Will the Plummer,
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likewise his brother Francis,
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And brawny Dick the Drummer,
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see how each Villian Dances,
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Her Musick gives them all content,
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As for me, alas, I do lament,
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The feathers which I wear,
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does to the world declare,
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that I am hornify'd,
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Old Nick would not be ty'd
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to such a cursed bride.
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Sure this Wife, will make me weary of my life.
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My Grief I cannot smuther,
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such is my sad disaster,
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I'll never have another
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shall be so much my master,
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If death would be so much my friend,
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As to bring my troubles to an end,
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and take her to the Grave,
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'tis all that I would have,
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so soon as she is dead
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I'll mourn in Sack and Red,
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and never more will wed,
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For this Wife, has made me weary of my life.
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