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