University of Virginia Library

In faythe good Histor, Longe ys youre delay,
Frome Holly Mariage, sweete and surest meane,
Oure Foolish Lustes in Honest Rules to stay,
I pray thee doo to Lalus sample leane,
Thow seest how friske and Jolly nowe hee ys,
That last day seemd hee coulde not chewe a Beane.

Beleeve mee, Man, there ys no greater Blisse,
Then ys the quyet Joy of Loving wyffe,
Whiche who so wantes, half of hym self dothe mysse
Frende withoute Change, Playfellow withoute stryfe,
Foode withoute fullnes, Counsell withoute stryfe,
Ys this sweete Dubling of oure single Lyfe.

No Doubte to whome so good Chance did betyde,
As for to fynde a Pasture strewde with golde,
Hee were a Foole yf there hee did not byde,
Who woulde not have a Phenix yf hee coulde,
The Humming Wasp yf yt had not a Stinge,
Before all Flees the Wasp accept I woulde,
But this Bad worlde fewe golden Feeldes dothe bringe,
Phenix but one, of Crowes wee Millyons fynde,
The Wasp seemes gay, but ys a Comberus thinge.

Yf many Kalas oure Arcadia gave,
Lalus example I woulde soone ensue,
And thincke I did my self from sorowe save,
But of suche wyves wee fynde a sclender Crewe,
Shrewdnes so sturres, Pryde so puffes up theyre hart
They syldome ponder what to them ys due.

With Maigre Lookes, as yf they still did smarte,
Pewling and whimpering or else scoulding flatt
Make home more payne then following of the Carte
Eyther dull sylence, or Eternall Chatt.
Still Contrary to what her Husband sayes,
Yf hee do prayse the Dogg, shee likes the Catt,
Auster shee ys when hee woulde honest playes.
And gamesome then when hee thinckes on his Sheepe,
She biddes hym goo, and yet from Journey stayes,
Shee warre dothe ever with his kinsfolke keepe,
And makes them fremd, who frendes by Nature are,
Envying shallowe Toyes with Mallys Deepe,
And yf forsoothe there come some newfounde ware,
The Litle Coyne his sweating browes hathe gott,
Must goo for that, yf for her Love hee Care,
Or else, nay faythe, myne ys the Luckless Lott,
That ever fell to honest woman, yett,
No wyfe but I have suche a Man god wott,
Suche ys theyre speeche, who bee of sober witt,
But who dothe lett theyre toungues shew well theyre Rage,
Lorde what by wordes they speake, what spyte they spitt.
The howse ys made a very loathsome Cage,
Wherein the Byrde dothe never singe but Crye,
With suche a Will that no thinge can asswage,
Dearely the Servauntes do theyre wages bwye
Revylde for eche smalle faulte, some tyme for none,
They better Live, that in a Gayle doo lye,
Lett other fowler spottes away bee blowne,
For I seeke not theyre shame, but still mee thinckes
A better Lyfe yt ys to live alone.

Who for eche fickle feare from vertue shrinckes,
Shalle in this lyfe embrace no worthy thinge,
No mortall Man the Cupp of Surety drinckes,
The Heavens doo not good happes in Handfulles bringe,
But let us pick oute good from oute muche badd,
That still oure litle worlde may knowe his kinge,
But certenly so longe wee may bee glad,
While that wee doo what nature dothe requyer,
And for the event wee never oughte bee sadd,
Man ofte ys plaigued wth ayer, ys burnte wth fyer,
In water Drownde, in earthe his Buryall ys,
And shall wee not therefore theyre use desyer,
Nature above all thinges requyreth this,
That wee oure kynde do Laboure to meyntayne
Whiche drawne oute Lyne, dothe holde all humane blisse.

Thy Father justly may of thee Complayne,
Yf thow doo not repay his deedes for thee,
In graunting unto hym a Graundsyers gayne,
Thy Comon wealthe may Rightly greeved bee
Whiche must by this Immortall bee preserved,
Yf thus thow murder thy posterity,
His very beeyng hee hathe not deserved,
Who for a self Conceipt will that forbeare,
Whereby that beeyng ay must bee Conserved,
And God forbidd woemen suche Cattell were,
As yow paynte them. But, well in yow I fynde,
No man dothe speake arighte, who speakes in feare,
Who onely sees the evill ys worse then blynde,
These Fifty winters marryed I have beene,
And yet fynde no suche faultes in Womankynde,
I have a Wyfe worthy to bee a Queene,
So well shee can Comaunde, and yet, obay,
In Ruling of a Howse so well shee ys seene,
And yet in all this tyme betwixt us Tway,
Wee beare oure Duble yock with suche Consent
There never past fowle worde, I dare well say,
But these are youre Love toyes wch still are spent
In Lawless games, and Love not as yow shoulde,
But with muche study learne late to Repent,
Howe well last day before youre Prince yow coulde,
Blynde Cupids worckes with wonder testify,
Yet nowe the Roote of hym abase yow woulde,
Goo too Goo too and Cupid now applye,
To that where thow thy Cupid mayste avowe,
And thow shalte fynde in woemen vertues lye,
Sweete supple myndes wch soone to wisdome bowe,
Where they by wisdomes Rules directed are;
And yet not forst fonde Thraldome to allowe,
As wee to gett are framed, so they to spare,
Wee made for paynes, they made oure paynes to cherish,
Wee care abroade, and they of home have Care,
O Histor, seeke within thy self to Florishe,
Thy Howse by thee must Live or else bee gone,
And then who shall the name of Histor norishe?
Riches of Children passe a Princes throane,
Whiche touche the Fathers harte with secrett Joy,
When withowte shame hee saythe these bee myne owne.
Marry therefore, for Marryage will Destroy,
Those passyons wch to youthfull hedd do Clyme,
Mothers and Nurses of all vayne Annoy.