 | The Knave of Harts |  |
Mony marryeth Mony.
A wretch that neither hop'd for heauen,Nor stood in feare of hell:
Whose onely loue was in his chest,
Where bagges of Gold did dwell:
Had shar'd so oft in Widdowes wealths
Had got the goods of fiue,
And went a wooing to the sixt,
(which sixt he meant to wiue)
Could number Husbands to his wiues,
Hauing as oft beene wed:
These rotten carrions both agree,
To make one stincking bed:
And being marryed, each of other
Had a iealous doubt,
Which might be luckie for to liue,
And weare the other out.
I feare (quoth mother Mumsimus)
The Drudge will bury me:
I dread (quoth her Curmudgion)
This Trot mine end will see
Me thinkes shee's lustier now,
Then long agoe she was:
I haue had lucke to bury fiue,
And turne them out to grasse:
And it would grieue my heart and soule,
To giue this old queane ground,
My leases, plate, my pawnes, my bonds,
And many a thousand pound,
(for I no kindred haue)
Would make some Countesse of my Wife,
If I were once in graue.
Ile see her hangd: take better hold,
Old Iohn, and neuer doubt,
A Poxe vpon the Doctors:
If they could but cure the gowte:
Set in new teeth, and mend mine eares,
And help me with some sight:
Prouide a medicine for my backe,
To make me goe vpright:
Cure this same Colique and the Stone,
And make these armes but strong:
Why, I should be a lusty youth:
And liue, God knowes how long.
She on the other side conferres
And with her selfe debates:
Oh what a lustie wench were I
To haue the sixe estates
Of monstrous misers ioyn'd in one;
And I a widdow free:
He should not be a little Lord,
That next should marry me:
No, I would haue some mighty man:
Or I would neuer match,
If Death would vse this Husband,
Like the fiue he did dispatch:
I finde my heart exceeding sound,
and subiect to no paine,
Were I a Girle againe.
Onely my flesh is not so plumpe
As it tofore hath bin:
Beauty is gone, why fate-well it:
A Faces-breadth of skinne:
If I could get a medicine for
The Rhume offends mine eyes,
And help for the Sciathiea,
That so torments my thighes.
The Cough that nightly breakes my sleepe,
The Crampe that makes me tumble:
The winde within my pudding-house,
That makes my guts to rumble.
The aches that are in my backe,
And bid me still Good-morrow:
And shake the shaking-Palsie off,
I would shake off all sorrow.
Thus with these wretches hopelesse things,
And cure where hope is past:
He longing to out-liue his Wife.
She trusting to dye last.
Till Death takes order with them both.
Whom long they did incense,
Giues each a stab to dye withall,
And takes them both from hence:
Vnto their bellies and their backes
Each dide an extreme debter:
The world did wrangle for their wealth
And Lawyers far'd the better.
| The Knave of Harts | |