A mery balade, how a wife entreated her
Husband, to have her owne wyll.
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IN May when floures swetely smel
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The people romyng abrode ful ryfe
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A mery tale I shal you tel
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that then was herd, but no great strife
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In close, a yong man and his wife
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Sate reasonyng sore, but for none yl,
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She said, I am wery of this lyfe
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Good husband let me have mine owne will.
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Wyfe (quoth he) then must I nedes know
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What is your wyll then for to have,
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At me you must neither mocke nor mow
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Nor yet loute me, nor call me knave:
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Nor VENUS game upon me crave
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Nor yet your honestye for to spill,
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And make me neyther boy nor slave
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But do good, and therin take your owne wyl.
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Tush (quoth she) sir as for that
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I wyll be honest, to dye therefore,
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But husband husband, wot ye what?
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I have bene your wyfe this month and more:
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And have not gone but to the dore
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Such keping in, my heart doth spyll,
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By housekepers, neighbours set no store
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Good husband let me have mine owne wyll.
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Wyfe (quoth he) be you content
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You shall to Church and to market go,
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And to neighbours to, at time convenient
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But not to gossip, the truth is so:
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Tavernes to haunt? no wyfe, no no
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Nor yet alehouses, with Jacke nor Gyll,
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You know my mynd for friend or fo
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Doe good, and therein take your owne wyll.
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Husband (quoth she) you be to blame
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To kepe me in, and so playne withall,
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Methinke I shuld be a fyne dame
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Whereby great prayse to you might fall:
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I being fayre, nice, and small
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Yf I had gay clothes my body to hyll,
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Then gentlewomen for me wold call
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Good husband let me have myne owne wyll.
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No wyfe (quoth he) it wyll not be borne
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For you to go fyne, and gayly clad,
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To go as I will have you, thinke ye no scorne
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That is, comely and cleane, sober and sad:
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Wherefore, be you neyther sicke nor yet mad
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Because ye may not your mynd fulfyll,
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For your desyre is wicked and bad
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Doe good, and therein take your owne wyll.
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Not mad (quoth she) alas good man
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What woman culd your wordes abyde?
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I entreatyng you, as fayre as I can
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And yet my wordes you set asyde:
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Though I be fayre, I love no pryde
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For I serve your swyne with draffe and swyl,
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Unto my friendes I wold fayne ryde
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Good husband let me have myne owne wyll.
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Wyfe (quoth he) what nedeth all this?
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You crave a great deale more then neede,
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Your friends have no need of us Iwis
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Wherefore be stayed good gentle Beede:
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Now let us plow, and sow our seede
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Our wynter land is yet to tyll,
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How to thryve, let us first take heede
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And do good, and therin take your owne wyl.
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Oh husband (quoth she) I am but yong
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Wherefore I pray you graunt me one thyng,
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At libertie let me have my toung
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Eyther to chyde, or els to syng:
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To daunce, to kysse, not overworkyng
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But once a weke to go to myll,
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My time is short, my death is cumming
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Good husband let me have mine owne wyll.
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No wyfe (quoth he) I am your head
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Wherefore I pray you, my counsell take,
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And let such tricks in you be dead
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Least that for it, your bones doe ake:
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Therefore learne betime to brue and bake
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And live no longer in ydlenesse styll,
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Wherefore for your owne ease sake
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Doe good, and therein take your owne wyll.
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Alas (quoth she) what chaunce have I
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To couple myselfe with such a one,
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That had rather to see me dye
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Then to decke me gay, as I wold have gone:
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To chyde, nor syng, nor to daunce alone
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I wold I had maried John Goosequyll,
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Then nede I not to have made this mone
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For by him, I might have had all my wyll.
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No more of these twayne culd be hard
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But home they went together playne,
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But let no wyves, this wyfe regard
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For her request was all in vayne:
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And yet with shrewes some men take payne
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And abydeth the job of the Devylles byll,
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From the which all good wyves refrayne
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God geve us all grace to doe his wyll. Amen.
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