University of Virginia Library

A Dialogue between a Botcher and his Wife, after his return from the Ale-house.

Wife.
I find you old Sot that your rising so soon,
Was to only have time to get Drunk before Noon.
Mr. Gundy the Smith has been twice at the Door,
And has vow'd you shall ne'er do a Stich for him more,
Because you have fail'd him in turning his Suit,
By the time you so faithfully promis'd to do it.
Jol. Nimble the Porter too raves for his Britches,
For those he has on are broke out in the Stitches:
He wants 'em so much, that he vows by this Light,
Either done or undone, he must have them to Night.
And now do you think you are not a fine Sot,
To neglect all your Work for the Pipe and the Pot;
At such a time too, when you cannot but know,
What a Score at the Chandlers and Bakers we owe.

Botcher.

Wife.
You Cabbaging Thief, d'ye believe I'm affraid,
Thus to reason the Case when my Children want Bread.
Do you think if the Neighbours should know how you use us,
They would not all say you're a Rogue to abuse us.
Must you at the Ale-house sit playing at Put,
And with strong Beer and Brandy lye stuffing your Gutt,
Whilst I all the Day stay at Home to save Charges,
And Live on small Drink that's as sower as Varges;
Which all Women know is so bad for a Nurse,
That there's nothing you hard hearted Dog can be worse.
It Poysons my Milk, Gripes the Child in my Arms,
And fills the poor Infant with nothing but Worms.
Besides, have I had any Victuals you Brute,
But a Mouldy old Crust and a Cucumber to't
Since yesterday Noon, and d'ye think I can quiet,
And Suckle my Baby with such sorry Diet;
I vow and protest either keep to your Work,
And dispatch what you now have in hand with a Jirk,
That my Infant and I may have something to cherish
Ourselves, or I swear Ill complain to the Parish,
And should I do so, e'eryour many Days older
You'd be sent like a Rogue as you are for a Soldier.

Botcher.
Here's Sixpence you Jade, won at Nine-pins to Day,
Who'd Work that can get so much Money at play.
Go buy a Sheep's Head with the Pluck hanging to it,
'Tis a Feast for a Prince, as you know how to do it.
I pray let the Scull be dish'd up by it self,
In the red Earthen Platter that stands on the Shelf:
The Brains with some Sage in a Rag must be boil'd,
And when butter'd, no Pap is so good for the Child.
Then cut out the Tongue while its hot from the Jaws,
And when split and well par'd, lay it over the Sauce;
But as to the Gather to me it's all one,
If you please you may Mince it or let it alone.
But Betty, one thing I had like to've forgot,
Pray besure it's well wash'd e'er it's put in the Pot.

Wife.
Would you have me to wash it, not I by my troth,
Don't you know very well it will weaken the Broth,
What strength will there be in the Porridge, I pray,
If the Blood and the Snivel be wash'd all away:
I hope Goodman Ninny, I'm not such a Child,
But I know how a Sheeps-head sure ought to be boil'd;
Have I for your Palate cook'd so many score,
And must I be thus tutor'd still over and o're:
I say the best way, as I've often been told,
Is to put it i'th' Pot when the Water is Cold,
Unwash'd and unpick'd, and the Porridge and Meat
Will be, one the more strong and the other more sweet.

Botcher.
Well, please thy own self, thou'rt a Slattern 'tis true,
Yet, I think thee to be the best Cook of the Two.
But prithee-now Bess, let us Eat it in quiet,
For scolding thou know'st I abhor with my Diet;
So here's Two Pence Half-penny more I have got,
Of such Beer as you love, let us have a full Pot;
That like Husband and Wife we may Drink and be Friends,
And at Night thou shalt find I will make thee amends.

Wife.
Why, is not this better than sitting all Day,
At an Ale-house, and squand'ring your Money away;
To Grease a fat Sow, a great Tun-belly'd Blouze,
Who, when once you grow Poor, will forbid you her House.
Ah! John, wert thou Sick, or should any Man Goal thee,
Thy Hostess, and tipp'ling Companions would fail thee:
In time of Affliction, I doubt thou would'st find,
Few Friends but thy Wife, to be loving and kind.
Come give her a Kiss, and from hence take a farewel
Of this sort of Life, and we never shall Quarrel.

Botcher.
I own I'm to blame, but I'll learn to be Wise,
I protest my dear Girl yon bring Tears in my Eyes;
Well, be a good Wife, and not Chatter or Mutter,
And I'll mend my Life, thou shalt find for the future.