Poor Anthony's Complaint And Lamentation against his Miseries of MARRIAGE, meeting with a scolding WIFE.
To the Tune of,
Cold and Raw. The Journey-man Shoemaker. Or,
Billy and
Molly.
O goodwife
Out Rogue Spend thy Mony
WAs ever Man so vext with a Wife
in Suburbs or in City?
I live a discontented life,
alas, the more's the pity:
I must to Bed now I am wed
before I fill my Belly,
Or else I have a broken head,
'tis 'a hard case I tell ye.
When I would eat she calls me sott,
and maundering Broth doth bring me,
So scolding, that is, scolding hot,
the very stream doth sting me;
Then you that live a single life
I wish you to beware,
For Marriage often breedeth strife,
and always bringeth care.
A dismal Peal to me is rung,
while I Rock Bearn in Cradle,
Oh! bless me from her scolding tongue,
and from her basting Ladle.
Oh that I were a single man
as I was heretofore sir,
I would not kiss young
Kate or
Nan,
nor never marry more sir.
My Wife doth lug me by the ears
if I but ask for Bacon,
And flouts and taunts and scolds and jears,
but she must have her Capon:
She kicks me up and down the house,
and roars as loud as Thunder,
While I am silent as a Mouse,
hold up my hands and wonder.
ABout the Room she often routs
for to find fault and quarrel,
Although I wash the shitten Clouts
and clean the Small Beer Barrel:
The Tongs and Irons though I scour,
and make her fire daily,
Yet I have not one quiet hour
she bums me like a Baily.
I drudge and toyl, and am her slave,
and clean both Pots and Flaggon,
I cannot tell what she would have
she is so like a Dragon;
She makes me weary of my life
for I can get no quiet,
The live-long day I live in strife,
and Scolding is my Diet.
She'l often rise from Spinning-wheel
to make me dance the Borey,
And make me tast so oft salt Eel,
I grow a meer
John Dorey,
She is a Chip of the old block,
(such Chips are but too common)
A sowre piece of Crab-tree stock,
a brawling bawling woman.
One night she went to take the Pot,
and all bepist me sweetly,
A leaky Cullander she got,
which made the Bed feel featly:
My Dear (quoth I) you piss beside
upon my Face and Pillow;
Peace Cuckold, peace, go sleep she cry'd,
you are a lying fellow.
I feel 'tis not quite to my thumb,
it can be no such matter,
Thus she pist on the Bed & Room,
and soak'd me in salt water,
She forc'd me to rise at night,
or else to lye in pickle,
For I was in a pissen plight
by this same Madam
Fickle.
By me let others warning take
when they intend to marry,
Least they (like me) repent too late,
and quickly do miscarry.
The married life is full of strife,
and full of Horns I fear it;
Then prithee do not take a Wife,
but take a Glass of Claret.
This may be Printed.
R. P.
Printed for J. Conyers at the Black Raven on Holborn Hill.