Paroimiographia Proverbs, or, Old sayed savves & adages in English (or the Saxon toung), Italian, French, and Spanish, whereunto the British for their great antiquity and weight are added ... / collected by J.H., Esqr.

The Complaint of one who had a Shrow to his Wife.

OH, what choyce may compare to the Devils life Like his, that hath chosen a Devil for his wife, Namely, such an old Witch, such a mackabroyne As ever more like a Hogg hangeth the groyne On her Husband, except he be her slave, And follow all Fancies that she would have! But the Proverb's true, ther's no good accord, Where everie man would be a Lord. Before I was wedded, and since, I made reckning To make my wife bow at every beckning, Batchlers boast how they will teach their wifes good, But many a man speaketh of Robin Hood

That never shot in his bow; but now I begin to gather, Everie one can rule a shrew save he who hath her. It is said of old, an old dog biteth sore, But the old Bitch biteth sorer, and more. But this is not all, she hath another blisse, She will lie as fast as a dog will lick a dish, She is of truth as false as God is true. She's damnably jealous, for if she chance view Me kissing my Maydes alone but in sport That taketh she in earnest after Bedlams sort. The Cow is wood, Her toung runneth on Pattens, If it be morn we have a pair of Mattens, If it be Evening Even-song, not Latine nor Greek, But English, and like that as in Easter week, She beginneth first with a cry a leysone To which she ring'th a peal, or larom, such a one As folks ring the Bees with basons, the world run'th on wheels, But except her Mayd shew a fair pair of heels She haleth her by the boyrope till her brains ake. And bring I home a dish good chear to make, What's this saith she? good meat say I, for you, God a mercy horse, a pigg of my own Sow; And commonly if I eat with her either flesh or fish, I have a dead mans head cast into my dish; She is as wholsome a morsell for a mans corse As a shoulder of mutton is for a sick horse, The devill with his dam, hath more rest in Hell, At every one of her teeth there hangs a great bell. A small thing amisse late I did espie Which to make her mend by a jest merrily I said but this, tantivet Wife your nose dropps, So it may fall I will eat no browesse sopps This day, but two dayes after this came in ure I had sorrow to my sopps enough be sure, This hath been her humor long and evermore Now, it is ill healing of an old sore. For the Proverb saith many years agone, It will nere out of the flesh that's bred in the bone. If any Husband but I were handled thus They would give her many a recumbentibus; But as well as I you know the saying, I think The more you stir a turd, the worse it will stink.