Humour wit Satire of the Seventeenth Century 2

Humour wit Satire of the Seventeenth Century 2

The Woman to the Plow=

 

and

 

The Man to the Hen Roost.

 

Or, a fine way to cure a _Cot Quean_--.

 

 

The Tune is, _I have for all good Wives a Song_.--

 

[7.]

 

[Illustration]

 

Both Men and Women listen well,

A merry Jest I will you tell,

Betwixt a Good man and his Wife,

Who fell the other day at strife:

He chid her for her Huswivery,

And she found fault as well as he,

With him for's work without the door,

Quoth he (_we'l quarrel thus no more_)

Sith you and I cannot agree,

Let's change the work. Content, quoth she,

My Wheel and Distaffe here take thow,

And I will drive the Cart and Plow.

This was concluded 'twixt them both,

To Cart and Plow the good-wife goeth,

The Good man he at home doth tarry,

To see that nothing doth miscarry.

An apron he before him put,

Judge, was not this a handsome slut.

He fleets[F. 1] the Milk, he makes the Chese,

He gropes[F. 2] the Hens, the Ducks, & Geese,

He Brews and Bakes as well as he Can,

But not as it should be done, poor man:

As he did make his Cheese one day,

Two Pigs their Bellies broke with whey;

Nothing that he in hand did take,

Did come to good; once he did Bake,

And burnt the Bread as black as a stock,

Another time he went to Rock

The Cradle, and threw the child o' th' floor,

And broke his Nose, and hurt it sore.

He went to milk one Eventide

A Skittish Cow on the wrong side,

His pail was full of Milk, God wot,

She Kickt and spilt it every jot.

Besides she hit him a blost o' th' face

Which was scant well in six weeks space.

Thus was he served, and yet too well

And more mischances yet befell.

Before his apron he'd leave off,

Though all his neighbours did him scoff.

Now list and mark one pretty jest,

'Twill make you laugh above all the rest,

As he to churn his Butter went,

One Morning with a good intent,

The Cot[F. 3] Quean fool did surely dream,

For he had quite forgot the Cream,

He churn'd all Day with all his might,

And yet he could get no Butter at night.

'Twere strange indeed for me to utter

That without Creame he should make Butter.

Now having shew'd his huswivery,

Who did all things thus untowardly,

Unto the good-wife I'll turn my Rhime,

And tell you how she spent her time;

She us'd to drive the Cart and Plow,

But do't well she Knew not how,

She made so many banks i' th' ground,

He been better have given five pound

That she had never ta'ne in hand

So sorely did she spoil the Land.

As she did go to Sow likewise,

She made a Feast for Crows and Pies,

She threw away a hanful at a Place,

And left all bare another Space.

At the Harrow she could not rule the Mare

But hid one Land, and left two bare.

And shortly after, one a day,

As she came home with a Load of Hay

She overthrew it, nay, and worse

She broke the Cart, and Kill'd a Horse:

The good-man that time had ill luck,

He let in the Sow, and Kill'd a Duck,

And being grieved at his heart,

For loss on's Duck, his Horse and Cart,

The many hurts on both sides done,

His eyes did with salt water run;

Then now, quoth he, full well I see

The Wheel's for her, the Plow's for me,

I thee intreat, quoth he, good-wife,

To take thy Charge, and all my life

I'll never meddle with huswivery more,

Nor find such faults as I did before;

Give me the Cart Whip and the Frail,

Take thou the Churn and Milking pail.

The good-wife she was well content

And about her Huswivery she went;

He to Hedging and to Ditching,

Heaping, Mowing, Lading, Pitching,

He would be twatling[F. 4] still before,

But after that ne'r twatled more.

I wish all Wives that troubled be

With Hose and Doublet Huswivery,

To serve them as this Woman did,

Then may they work and ne'r be chid.

Though she i' th' intrim had some loss,

Thereby she was eased of a Cross;

Take heed of this you husband men,

Let Wives alone to grope the Hen,

And meddle you with Horse and Ox.

And keep your Lambs safe from the Fox,

So shall you live Contented lives,

And take sweet pleasure in your Wives.

 

FINIS.

 

Printed for J. Wright,[F. 5] J. Clarke,[F. 6] W. Thackeray,[F. 7] and

T. Passinger.[F. 8]

 

[Footnote 1: Floats, _i.e._ skims the cream floating on the

milk.]

 

[Footnote 2: Feels whether they have eggs.]

 

[Footnote 3: One who meddles in women's business.]

 

[Footnote 4: Chattering.]

 

[Footnote 5: Published from 1670 to 1690.]

 

[Footnote 6: From 1650 to 1682.]

 

[Footnote 7: From 1660 to 1680.]

 

[Footnote 8: From 1670 to 1682.]

 

 

[8.] The Marquess of _Worcester_, calling for a glass of Claret wine,

it was told him by his Physician, that Claret wine was naught for his

gout; What, said the Marquess, my old friend Claret? nay, give it me

in spight of all Physicians and their books, it never shall be said

that I forsook my friend for my enemy.

 

 

_On a cowardly Souldier._

 

_Strotzo_ doth weare no ring upon his hand, [5.]

Although he be a man of great command;

But gilded spurs do jingle at his heeles;

Whose rowels are as big as some coach wheels,

He grac'd them well, for in the Netherlands,

His heels did him more service than his hands.

 

 

_On a fly in a glasse._

 

A fly out of his glasse a guest did take, [5.]

'Ere with the liquor he his thirst would slake,

When he had drunk his fill, again the fly

Into the glasse he put, and said, though I

Love not flyes in my drink yet others may,

Whose humour I nor like, nor will gainsay.

 

 

_Upon a Churle that was a great usurer._

 

A Chuffe that scarce hath teeth to chew his meate, [9.]

Heares with deafe ears, and sees with glassy eies,

Unto his grave his path doth daily beate,

Or like a logg upon his pallett lies:

 

Hath not a thought of God, nor of his grace,

Speaks not a word but what intends to gaine,

Can have no pitty on the poore Mans case,

But will the hart-strings of the needy straine:

 

Cries not till death, and then but gives a groane,

To leave his silver, and his golden bags,

Then gapes and dies, and with a little moane

Is lapped up in a few rotten ragges:

What will this Clunch fist leave upon his grave?

Here lies the Carkasse of a wretched Knave.

 

 

[4.] An Arch Wag speaking of the late dreadful Fire of _London_, said

Cannon Street roared, Wood Street was burnt to Ashes, Bread Street was

burnt to a Coal, Pie Corner was over bak'd and Snow hill melted down.

 

 

[4.] A Highway man being to be hang'd in a Country Town, Order was

sent to the Carpenter to make a Gallows; which he neglecting to do,

the Execution was forc'd to be defer'd, for which the Judge was not a

little angry, who sending for the Carpenter, asked him why he had not done it? Why Sir, said he, I have done two or three already, but was never paid for them; but had I known it had been for your Worship, I would have left all other business to have done it.