The Scolding WIFE
To a pleasant new Tune.
THere was young-man for lucre of gain,
He lov'd a Widow well,
His Friends did tell him often and plain,
in scolding she did excel.
Why that is no matter, quoth he,
so I may have her Bags of Gold,
let her not spare to Brawl and Scold,
For I'll be as merry as merry may be.
This Woodcock wedded his hearts desire;
a Widow with Money enough;
They was-not so soon out of the Quire
e'er she begun to snuff;
Methink you be very fine,
you can no quicker get you hence,
without such large and great expence,
Of sugared Sops and musick to dine.
They was not all at supper set,
or at the board sate down,
E'er she began to brawl and scold,
and call'd him a peaking Clown:
That nothing he could doe
that was pleasing in her sight;
but still she scolded day and night,
Which made this merry man's heart full of woe.
If he had provided any good cheer
for him and her alone,
Then she wou'd a said, with words more hot,
you might a done this of your own.
If sparingly he will be,
then she would have said with words more hot
I will not be pinch'd of what I brought,
But of mine own I will be free.
That nothing he could doe
That was pleasing in his sight,
But still she scolded day and night,
Which made this merry man's hearts full of woe.
O God in his Prayer he did beseech
To take his Life away,
A hundred times he curst
The Priest, the Clerk, the Sexton too,
And tongue that did the Widow woe,
And legs that brought him first.
It fell out upon a day
that with his friends he did devise
to brake her of her scolding guise,
And what they did they shall be weary:
They got and ty'd her Arms
She could not them undoe,
And many other pretty Charms
they used her unto,
Her Petticoat was rent and torn,
Vpon her Back they did put on,
They tore her Smock sleeves all along,
As if a Bedlam she had been born;
Her hair about her head they shook,
All with a bramble Bush.
They ring her Arms in every crook
Till out the blood did gush,
And with an Iron Chain
Fast by the Leg he did her tye,
There within an old dark House by:
So soon he went away again,
And with a Countenance so sad,
He did his Neighbours call:
Quoth he, my Wife is Mad,
She doth so rave and brawl:
Help Neighbours all therefore,
To see if that you can reclaim
My Wife into her Wits again
For she is troubled wondrous sore.
FINIS.
Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden Ball in Pye-corner.