The Cruell Shrow:
OR,
The Patient Mans Woe.
Declaring the misery, and the great paine,
By his unquiet wife he doth dayly sustaine.
To the Tune of Cuckolds all arowe.
|
COme Batchelers and Maried men,
|
and listen to my Song;
|
And I will shew you plainely then,
|
the injury and wrong
|
That constantly I doe sustaine,
|
by the unhappy life,
|
The which does put me to great paine,
|
by my unquiet wife.
|
Shee never linnes her bauling,
|
her tongue it is so loud,
|
But alwaies sheele be railing,
|
and will not be contrould:
|
For shee the Briches still will weare,
|
although it breedes my strife,
|
If I were now a Batcheler,
|
Ide never have a Wife.
|
Sometime I goe ithe morning,
|
about my dayly worke.
|
My wife she will be snorting,
|
and in her bed shyle lurke:
|
Untill the Chimes doe goe at Eight,
|
then shele beginne to wake;
|
Her mornings draught well spiced straight
|
to cleare her eyes shele take.
|
As soone as shee is out of bed,
|
her Looking-glasse shee takes,
|
So vainely is she dayly led,
|
her mornings worke shee 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 foorth a Gossiping,
|
amongst her owne Comrades.
|
And then she falls a bowsing,
|
with her merry blades:
|
When I come from my labour hard,
|
then sheele begin to scould,
|
And calls me Rogue without regard,
|
which makes my heart full cold.
|
When I come home into my house,
|
thinking to take my rest:
|
Then shele begin me to abuse,
|
before she did but Jest:
|
With out you Raskall, you have beene
|
abroad to meet your Whoore:
|
Then shee takes up a Cudgels end,
|
and breaks my head full sore.
|
When I for quietnesse sake desire,
|
my wife for to be still;
|
She will not grant what I require,
|
but sweares sheele have her will:
|
Then if I chance to heave my hand;
|
straight way shele murder cry:
|
Then judge all men that here doe stand,
|
in what a case am I.
|
|
|
|
|
The second Part, To the same Tune.
|
ANd if a friend by chance me call,
|
to drinke a pot of Beere;
|
Then shele begin to curse and brall,
|
and fight, and scratch, and teare:
|
And sweares unto my worke shele send
|
me straight without delay,
|
Or else with the same Cudgels end,
|
shee will me soundly pay.
|
And if I chance to sit at meat,
|
upon some holy day,
|
She is so sullen she will not eate,
|
but vexe me ever and aye:
|
Shele pout, and loure, and curse & bann,
|
this is the weary life
|
That I doe leade, poore harmelesse 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:
|
Straight way she such a noise wil make,
|
with her most wicked tongue,
|
That all her mates her part to take,
|
about me soone will thronge.
|
Thus am I now tormented still,
|
with my most cruell Wife,
|
All through her wicked tongue so ill,
|
I am weary of my life:
|
I know not truely what to doe,
|
nor how my selfe to mend;
|
This lingring life doth breede my woe,
|
I would twere at an ende
|
O that some harmelesse 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.
|
Thus to conclude and make an ende,
|
of these my Verses rude,
|
I pray all wives for to amende,
|
and with peace to be endude:
|
Take warning all men by the life,
|
that I sustained long,
|
Be carefull how youle chuse a Wife,
|
and so Ile ende my Song.
|
|
|
|
|