University of Virginia Library

The Sonne.
Father I beseche you father, shewe me the waye
What thynge I were best to take in hand,
Wherby this shorte lyfe so spende I maye
That all gryefe and trouble, I myght withstande.

The Father.
What is the meanynge (my chylde) I the praye
This question to demaunde of me?
For that thynge to do, I am glad alwaye
Which shoulde not be greuous to the.

The Sonne.
Marye but therfore, of you counsell I take,
Seynge nowe my Chyldehood, I am cleane past,
That vnto me, ye playnely do make,
What to a yongman is best for to tast.

The Father.
I see nothinge truely my Sonne so mete
And to proue so profytable for the
As vnto the Schole to moue thy feete,
With studious Laddes, there for to be.

The Sonne.
What the Schole? naye father, naye,
Go to the Schole is not the best waye.

The father.
Saye what thou lyste, for I can not inuent
A waye more cōmodyous in my Iudgement.

The Sonne.
It is well knowne howe that ye haue loued
Me heretofore at all tymes most tenderlye
But now (me thynke) ye haue playnely shewed
Certayne tokens of hatred.
For if I shoulde go to my Booke after your aduyse
Whiche haue spent my Chyldehood so pleasauntlye,
I maye then seeme dryuen out of Paradyse
To take payne and woe, gryefe and myserye.
All thynges I had rather sustayne and abyde
The busynes of the Schole ones cast asyde,
Therfore thoughe ye crye tyll ye reue asunder
I wyll not meddle with such a matter.

The Father.
Why can not I thee thus much perswade?
For that in my mynde is the best trade.

The Sonne.
Whan all is saide and all is done,
Concernynge all thynges both more and lesse
Yet lyke to the Schole none vnder the Sonne
Bryngeth to children so much heauynesse.

The Father.
What though it be paynfull, what thought it be greuos,
For so be all thynges at the fyrste learnynge,
Yet meruaylous pleasure it bryngeth vnto vs
As a rewarde for suche paynes takynge.
Wherfore come of and be of good cheare
And go to thy Booke without any feare
For a man without knowledge (as I haue read)
Maye well be compared to one that is dead.

The Sonne.
No more of the Schole, no more of the Booke
That wofull worke is not for my purpose
For vpon those Bookes I maye not looke,
If so I dyd, my laboure I should lose.

The Father.
Why than to me thy fansye expresse
That the Schole matters to the are counted werynesse

The Sonne.
Euen as to a great man, wealthy and ryche
Seruice and bondage is a harde thynge
So to a Boye both dayntie and nyce
Learnynge and studye is greatly displeasynge.

The father.
What my Chylde, displeasynge I praye the?
That maketh a man lyue so happyly.

The Sonne.
Yea by my trouthe, suche kynde of wysdome
Is to my hearte I tell you, verye lothesome.

The Father.
What tryall therof hast thou taken
That the Scole of thee is so ill bespoken?

The Sonne.
What tryall therof woulde ye fayne knowe?
Nothynge more easye then this to showe:
At other boyes handes, I haue it learned,
And that of those truelye most of all other
Which for a certen tyme haue remayned
In the house and pryson of a Scholemayster

The Father.
I dare well saye, that there is no myserye
But rather Ioye, pastyme, and pleasure
Alwayes with Scholers kepynge company,
No lyfe to this, I the well assure.

The Sonne.
It is not true Father which you do saye,
The contrarye therof is proued alwaye,
For as the Brute goeth by many a one,
Their tender bodyes both nyght and daye
Are whypped and scourged, and beate lyke a stone
That from toppe to toe, the skyn is awaye.

The Father.
Is there not (saye they) for them in this case,
Gyuen other whyle for pardone some place?

The Sonne.
None truely none, but that alas, alas
Diseases amonge them do growe apase.
For out of their backe and syde doth floe,
Of verye goore bloode merueylous abundance,
And yet for all that is not suffered to goe,
Tyll death be almost seene in their countinaunce.
Shoulde I be content then thyther to runne,
Where the bloude from my breeche thus shoulde spuane,
So longe as my wyttes shall be myne owne,
The Scholehouse for me shall stande alone.

The Father.
But I am sure that this kynde of facion
Is not shewed to children of honest condicion.

The Sonne.
Of trouth with these Maisters is no dyfference
For alyke towardes all, is their wrathe and violence.

The Father.
Sonne in this poynt, thou art quyte deceyued
And without doubte falsely perswaded
For it is not to be iudged that any Scholemayster,
Is of so great fiersenes and crueltye
And of yonge Infantes so sore a tormenter
That the breath shoulde be about to leaue the bodye.

The Sonne.
Father this thynge I coulde not haue beleued
But of late dayes I dyd beholde
An honest mannes sonne hereby buryed
Which throughe many strypes was dead and colde.

The Father.
Perauenture the Childe of some disease did laboure
Which was the cause of his Sepulture.

The Sonne.
With no disease surely, was he disquieted,
As vnto me it was then reported.

The Father.
If that with no such thynge he were infected
What was the cause that he departed.

The Sonne.
Men saye, that of this man, his bloudy mayster
Who lyke a Lyon most cōmonly frowned,
Beynge hanged vp by the heeles togyther
Was bealy and buttocke greuouslye whipped.
And last of all (whiche to speake I trembled)
That his head to the wall he had often crusshed.

The Father.
Thus to thynke Sonne, thou art beguyled verelye,
And I woulde wysshe the to suppose the contrary.
And not for suche tales my counsell to forsake
Which only do couet thee learned to make.

The Sonne.
If Demosthenes and Tully were present truely
They coulde not prynt it within my head depely.

The Father.
Yet by thy fathers wyll and intercession,
Thou shalt be content that thinge to pardon.

The Sonne.
Commaunde what ye lyst, that onely excepted,
And I will by redy yuor mynde to fulfyll,
But where as I shulde to the Schole haue resorted
My hande to the Palmer submyttynge styll.
I wyll not obey ye therin to be playne,
Thoughe with a thousande strokes I be slayne.

The Father.
Wo is me my Sonne, wo is me,
This heauy and dolefull daye to see.

The Sonne.
I graunt in dede, I am your Sonne,
But you my Father shall not be,
If that ye wyll cast me into that pryson,
Where torne in peices ye myght me see.

The Father.
Where I myght see the torne and rent?
O Lord I coulde not suche a dede inuent.

The Sonne.
Naye by the Masse, I holde ye, a grote
Those cruell tyrauntes cut not my throte:
Better it were my selfe dyd sleye,
Then they with the Rodde my flesshe shoulde fleye.
Well I woulde we dyd this talke omyt,
For it is lothesome to me euery whyt.

The Father.
What trade then (I praye the) shall I deuyse
Wherof thy lyuinge at length maye aryse?
Wilte thou folowe Warfare, and a Souldiour be pointed,
And so amonge Troyans and Romaynes be nombred,

The Sonne.
See ye not maysters my Fathers aduyse
Haue ye the lyke at any time harde?
To wyll me therto, he is not wyse
If my yeares and strength he dyd regarde,
Ye speake worse and worse, what soeuer ye saye
This maner of life is not a good waye.
For no kynde of offyce can me please,
Which is subiecte to woundes and strokes alwaies.

The Father.
Somwhat to do, it is mete and conueniet,
Wylte thou then gyue thy dylygent endeuoure
To let thy youth vnhonestly be spent
And do as poore knaues, which Iaxes do scoure?
For I do not see that any good Arte
Or els any honest Science, or occupacion
Thou wylte be content to haue a parte
After thy fathers mynde and exhortacion.

The Sonne.
Ha, ha, ha, a laboure in verye deede,
God send hym that lyfe which standes in neede.
There be many fathers that chyldren haue
And yet not make the worst of them a slaue,
Might not you of your selfe be well a shamed
Which wolde haue your sonne thyther constrayned?

The Father.
I woulde not haue the dryuen to that succoure,
Yet for bycause the Scriptures declare,
That he shoulde not eate, which wyll not laboure
Some worke to do it must be thy care.

The Sonne.
Father, it is but a folye with you to stryue
But yet notwithstandynge I hope to thryue

The Father.
That this thyne intente maye take good successe
I praye God hartely of hys goodnes.

The Sonne.
Well, well, shall I in fewe wordes reherse,
What thinge doth most my Conscience perse?

The Father.
Therwith I am Sonne very well contented.

The Sonne.
Yea but I thynke that ye wyll not be pleased.

The Father.
In dede peraduenture it maye so chaunce.

The Sonne.
Naye but I praye ye without any perchaunce,
Shall not my request turne to your greuaunce.

The Father.
If it be iust and lawfull, which thou doest requyre.

The Sonne.
Both iust and lawfull haue ye no feare.

The Father.
Nowe therfore aske, what is thy peticion?

The Sonne.
Loe this it is without further Dilacion,
For so much as all yongmen for this my Beautie,
As the Moone, the starres, I do farre excell,
Therfore out of hande, with all spede possybly,
To haue a wife (me thynke) wolde do well,
For now I am yonge, lyuely, and lustie,
And welcome besydes to all mennes companye.

The Father.
Good Lord, good Lord, what do I here?

The Sonne.
Is this your begynnynge to performe my desyre.

The Father.
Alas my chylde, what meaneth thy dotynge?
Why doest thou couet thy owne vndoynge?

The Sonne.
I knowe not in the worlde howe to do the thynge
That to his stomacke, maye be delyghtynge.

The Father.
Why foolysshe Ideot, thou goest about a wyfe
Which is a burthen and yoke all thy lyfe.

The Sonne.
Admyt she shall as a burthen with me remayne,
Yet wyll I take one, if your good wyll I attayne.

The Father.
Sonne it shall not be thus by my counsell.

The Sonne.
I truste ye wyll not me otherwyse compell.

The Father.
If thou were as wyse, as I haue iudged the
Thou woldest in this case be ruled by me.

The Sonne.
To folowe the contrarye I can not be turned
My harte theron is styffly fixed.

The Father.
What I saye, about thine owne distruction?

The Sonne.
No, no, but about myne owne saluation:
For if I be helped, I swere by the Masse,
It is onely Maryage that brynges it to passe.
It is not the Schole, it is not the Booke,
It is not Science or Occupacion,
It is not to be a Barbour or Cooke
Wherein is now set my consolacion.
And synce it is thus, be father content
For to marye a wyfe, I am full bent.

The Father.
Well if thou wylt not my Sonne, be ruled
But nedes wyll folowe thyne owne foolysshenes,
Take hede hereafter if thou be troubled
At me thou neuer seeke redresse.
For I am certeyn thou canst not abyde
Any payne at all, gryefe, or vexacion,
Thy Chyldhood with me so easely dyd slyde
Full of all pastyme and delectacyon.
And if thou woldest folowe the Booke and learnynge,
And with thy selfe also, take a wyse waye:
Then thou mayst get a gentlemans lyuynge
And with many other beare a great swaye.
Besydes this I wolde in time to come
After my power, and small habylytie,
Helpe the and further the, as my wysdome,
Shulde me most counsell for thy Commodytie.
And such a wyfe I woulde prepare for the
As shoulde be vertuous, wise and honest,
And gyue the wyth her after my degree,
Wherby thou mightest alwayes lyue in rest.

The Sonne.
I cannot, I tell ye agayne, so much of my lyfe
Consume at my Booke without a wyfe.

The Father.
I perceyue therfore, I haue done to well
And shewed ouer much fauoure to the,
That now agaynst me thou doest rebell
And for thyne owne furtheraunce wylt not agree.
Wherfore of my goodes thou gettest not a peny
Nor anye succoure els at my handes
For such a childe is most vnworthy
To haue any parte of his fathers landes.

The Sonne.
I do not esteme Father your goodes or landes
Or any parte of all your treasure,
For I iudge it ynoughe to be out of bandes
And from this daye forward to take my pleasure.

The Father.
Well, if it shall chaunce the thy folye to repent
As thou art lyke within short space,
Thynke none but thy selfe worthy to be shent,
Lettynge my councell to take no place.

The Sonne.
As touchynge that matter, I wyll no man blame
Now farewell father, most hartely for the same.

The Father.
Farewell my Sonne, departe in Goddes name.

The Sonne.
Rome I saye rome, let me be gone
My Father if he lyst, shall tarye alone.

Here the Sonne goeth out and the Ryche man taryeth behinde alone.
The Father.
Nowe at the last I do my selfe consyder
Howe great griefe it is and heuynes,
To euery man, that is a Father,
To suffre his chylde to folowe wantonnes,
If I myght lyue a hundred yeares longer
And shoulde haue sonnes and daughters many
Yet for this Boyes sake, I wyll not suffer,
One of them all at home with me to tarye,
They shoulde not be kept thus vnder my wynge
And haue all that which they desyre,
For why it is but theyr onely vndoynge
And after the Prouerbe, we put oyle to the fyre.
Wherfore we Parentes must haue a regarde,
Our Chyldren in time for to subdue
Or els we shall haue them euer vntowarde,
Yea, spytefull, disdaynfull, nought, and vntrue.
And let vs them thruste alwaye to the Schole
Wherby at their Bookes they maye be kept vnder:
And so we shall shortely their courage coole,
And brynge them to honestie, vertue and Nurture.
But alas now a dayes (the more is the pytye)
Science and learnynge is so lytell regarded,
That none of vs all doth muse or studye
To see our chyldren well taught and instructed.
We decke them, we trym them with gorgious araye
We pampre and fede them, and kepe them so gaye
That in the ende of all this, they be our foes.
We basse them, kysse them, we looke rounde about
We meruaile and wonder to see them so leane
We euer anone doe inuent and seke out,
To make them goe tricksie, gallaunt, and cleane.
Which is nothyng els, but the very prouokynge
To all vnthriftynes, vice, and Iniquitie,
It puffeth them vp, it is an allurynge
Their fathers and mothers at lengthe to defye.
Which thing myne owne Sonne doth playnely declare
Whom I alwayes intierly haue loued,
He was so my Ioye, he was so my care
That now of the same I am despised.
And now he is hence from me departed,
He hath no delyght with me to dwell,
He is not merye, vntyll he be maryed,
He hath of knauerye tooke such a smell.
But yet seynge that he is my Sonne,
He doth me constrayne bytterly to weepe,
I am not (me thynke) well, tyll I be gone
For this place I can no lenger keepe.

Here the Ryche man goeth out and the two Cookes cōmeth in Fyrst the one and then the other.
The Mancooke.
Nake hast Blaunche Blabbe it out, & come a waye
For we haue ynought to do all this whole daye,
Why Blaunche blabbe it out, wilt thou not come
And knowest what busynes there is to be done?
If thou maye be set with the pot at thy nose
Thou carest not how other matters goes,
Come a waye I byd the, and tarye no longer
To trust to thy helpe, I am much the better.

The Maydecooke.
What a Murryn I say, what a noyse doest thou make?
I thynke that thou be not well in the wyttes
I neuer harde man on this sorte to take
With suche angry wordes, and hastie fyttes.

Mancooke.
Why dost thou remembre, what is to be bought
For the great Brydale agaynst to morowe?
The market must be in euery place sought
For all kynde of meates, God guye the sorow.

Maydecooke.
What bānyng? what cursynge? Longtong is with the?
I made as muche spede, as I coulde possyblye,
Iwys thou mightest haue taryed for me
Untill in all pointes I had ben redye,
I haue for thee looked full oft heretofore,
And yet for all that sayde neuer the more.

Mancooke.
Well for this ones, I am with thee content
So that hereafter thou make more hast,
Or els I tell thee, thou wylte it repent,
To loyter so longe, tyll the Market be past.
For there must be bought Byefe, Ueale, and Mutton,
And that euen such as is good and fat
With Pigge, Geese, Conyes and Capon,
Howe sayest thou Blaunch blabbe it out vnto that?

Maydecooke.
I can not tell Lontonge, what I shoulde saye
Of such good cheare I am so glad:
That if I woulde not eate all that daye
My bealy to fyll, I were verye made.

Mancooke.
There must be also Fesaunte and Swanne
There must be Heronsewe, Partiche and Quayle,
And therfore I must do, what I can,
That of none of all these the Gentelman fayle.
I dare saye he lookes for many thinges moe,
To be prepared against to morne,
Wherfore I saye, hence let vs goe,
My feete do stande vpon a thorne.

Maydecooke.
Naye good Longtonge, I praye the ones agayne
To here yet of my mynde, a worde or twayne.

Mancooke.
Come of then: dispatche, and speake it quicklye
For what thynge it is, thou causest me tary.

Maydecooke.
Of whence is this Gentelman, yt to morowe is married
Where doth his father and his mother dwell?
Aboue fourty myles he hath trauayled
As yester nyght his Seruaunte dyd tell.

Mancooke.
In verye dede, he commes a great waye,
With my Mayster he maye not longe abyde,
It hath cost hym so muche on costly araye,
That Money out of his purse apase doth slyde.
They saye that his frendes be ryche and wealthy
And in the Cytie of London haue their dwellynge,
But yet of them all he hath no peny,
To spende and bestowe here at his weddynge.
And if it be true that his Seruaunte dyd saye
He hath vtterly lost his fryndes good wyll
Bycause he wolde not their counsayle obaye,
And in his owne Countrey tarye styll.
As for this woman, which hee shall marye
At Sainct Albones alwayes, hath spent her lyfe
I thynke she be a shrew, I tell thee playnely,
And full of debate, malyce and stryfe.

Maydecooke.
Thoughe I neuer sawe this woman before
Whiche hither with him this Gentelman borught,
Yet neuertheles I haue tokens in store,
To iudge of a woman that is frowarde and nought.
The typ of her nose, is as sharpe as myne
Her tonge and her tune is very shryll
I warraunt her, she commes of an vngracius kyn,
And loueth to much her pleasure and wyll,
What thoughe she be now so neate and so nyce,
And speaketh as gentle as euer I hearde:
Yet yongmen which be both wyttie and wyse,
Such lookes, and such wordes, shulde not regarde.

Mancooke.
Blaunch blabbe it out, thou sayest verye true
I thinke thou beginnest at length to preache
This thynge to me is straunge and new,
To heare such a foole yongmen to teache.

Maydecooke.
A foole mine owne Longtong, why calst thou me foole
Thoughe nowe in the kytchyn I waste the daye,
Yet in tymes paste I went to Schoole,
And of my laten Prymer I tooke assaye.

Mancooke.
Maysters thys woman dyd take such assaye,
And then in those dayes so applyed her booke,
That one worde therof, she carryed not awaye,
But then of a Scholer was made a Cooke.
I dare saye she knoweth not, howe her Primer began,
Which of her mayster she learned than.

Maydecooke.
I trowe it began with Domine labia aperies.

Mancooke.
What dyd it begyn with butterde peeas?

Maydecooke.
I tell the agayne, with Domine labia aperies,
If nowe to heare, it be thyne ease.

Mancooke.
How, how, with my Madame laye in the peeas?
I thynke thou art mad with Domine labia aperies.

Mancooke.
Yea mary, I iudged it went such wayes,
It began with Dorithe laye vp the keyes.

Maydecooke.
Naye then God night, I perceyue by thys geare,
That none is so deafe, as who wyll not heare,
I spake as playnely, as I coulde deuise,
Yet me vnderstande, thou canst in no wyse.

Mancooke.
Why yet ones agayne, and I wyll better lysten
And looke vpon the, howe thy lyppes do open.

Maydecooke.
Well marke then, and harken ones for all:
Or els heare it agayne thou neuer shall,
My Booke I saye, began with Domine labia aperies.

Mancooke.
Fye, fye, howe slowe am I of vnderstandynge?
Was it all this whyle, Domine labia aperies?
Belyke I haue lost my sense of hearynge,
With broylynge and burnynge in the kytchyn adyes.

Maydecooke.
I promysse the thou semest to haue done lytell better
For that I wote in my lyfe I neuer sawe,
One lyke to thy selfe, in so easye a matter.
Unlesse he were deafe, thus playe the Dawe.

Mancooke.
Come on, come on, we haue almost forgotten
Such plentie of victualles as we shulde bye
It were almes by my trothe, thou were well beaten
Bycause so longe thou hast made me tarye.

Maydecooke.
Tusshe tusshe, we shall come in very good season,
If so be thou goest as fast as I,
Take vp thy basket and quickely haue done
We wyll be both there by and by.

Mancooke.
I for my parte wyll neuer leaue runnynge
Untyll that I come to the Signe of the Whitynge.

Here the two Cookes runne out and in commeth the Yongman and the Yongwoman his Louer.
The Yongwoman.
Where is my sweetynge, whom I do seeke
He promysed me to haue mette me here
Tyll I speake with him, I thinke it a weeke
For he is my Ioye, he is my chere.
There is no night, there is no daye
But that my thoughtes be all of hym
I haue no delyght if he be awaye,
Such toyes in my heade do euerswym.
But beholde at the last, where he doth come
For whom my harte desyred longe,
Now shall I know all an some,
Or els I woulde saye, I had great wronge

The yongman.
My darlynge, my Conye, my Byrde so bryght of blee,
Sweete hart I saye, all haylee to thee
How do our Loues, be they fast a sleepe
Or the olde lyuelynes, do to they styll keepe?

The yongewoman.
Do ye aske and my Loue be fast a sleepe?
O if a woman maye vtter her mynde,
My loue had almost made me to weepe
Bycause that euen now I dyd not you fynde
I thought it surely a whole hundred yere,
Tyll in this place I sawe you here.

The yongman.
Alacke, alacke, I am sorye for this,
I had such busines I myght not come
But ye maye perceyue what my wyt is,
How small regarde I haue and wisdome.

The yongwoman.
Wheras ye aske me concernynge my loue
I well assure you, it doth dayly augment:
Nothynge can make me starte or moue
You onely to loue is myne intent.

The yongman.
And as for my loue doth neuer relente,
For of you I do dreame, of you I do thynke:
To dynner and supper, I neuer went,
But of Beere and Wyne to you I dyd drinke.
Now of such thynhes therfore to make an ende
Which pytyfull louers do cruelly torment,
To Maryage in Goddes name, let vs discende
As vnto this houre we haue bene bente.

The yongwoman.
Your wyll to accomplysshe I am as redye,
As any woman, beleue me truelye.

The yongman.
This Rynge then I gyue you as a token sure,
Wherby our loue shall alwayes endure.

The yongwoman.
With a pure pretence your pledge I take gladly
For a Signe of our loue, fayth and fydelytie.

The yongman.
Nowe I am safe, nowe I am glad,
Nowe I do lyue, nowe I do raigne:
Me thought tyll now I was to sad,
Wherfore sadnes flye hence agayne.
A waye with those words which my father brought out
A waye with his saigenes and exhortacion
He coulde not make me his foole or his lowte,
And put me besydes this delectacion.
Dyd he iudge that I woulde go to the Schoole,
And might my tyme spende after this sorte?
I am not his Calfe, nor yet his foole,
This Uirgin I kysse, is my comforte.

The yongwoman.
Well than I praye you let vs be maryed
For me thynke from it we haue longe taryed.

The yongman.
Agreed my Sweetynge, it shalbe then done,
Synce that thy good wyll I haue goten and wone.

The yongwoman.
There wolde this daye be very good cheare
That euery one his bealy maye fyll,
And thre or foure Minstrelles wolde be here
That none in the house syt idle or styll.

The yongman.
Take ye no thought for abundaunce of meate
That shoulde be spent at our Brydale,
For there shalbe ynought for all men to eate
And Minstrelles besydes therto shall not fayle.
The Cookes I dare saye, a good whyle a gone
With such kynde of flesshe as I dyd them tell
Are from the market both come home
Or els my owne Conye they do not well.
I knewe before that I come to this place
We shoulde be maryed togyther thys daye
Which caused me then forthwith in this case
To sende for victualles or I came awaye.

The yongwoman.
Wherfore then (I praye ye) shall we go to our Inne,
And looke that euery thinge be made redye,
Or els all is not worth a Brasse pynne,
Such hast is requyred in matrymonye.

The yongman.
I thinke sixe a clocke it is, not much passed
But yet to the priest we wyll make hast
That accordynge to custome we maye be both coupled
And with a stronge knot for euer bounde fast.
Yet ere I departe, some songe I wyll synge,
To the intent to declare my Ioye without feare
And in the meane tyme you maye my swetynge,
Rest your selfe in this lytell chayre.
The Songe.
How lyke ye this songe, my owne swete Rose,
Is it well made for our purpose?

The yongwoman.
I neuer harde in all my lyfe a better,
More pleasaunte, more meete for the matter,
Now let vs go then, the mornynge is nye gone
We can not any longer here remaine:
Farewell good Masters eueryechone,
Tyll from the Churche we come agayne.

Here they go out, and in commeth the Priest alone.
Syrs , by my trouthe it is a worlde to see,
The excedynge negligence of euery one,
Euen from the hyest to the lowest degree,
Both goodnes and conscience is cleane gone.
There is a yonge gentelman in this towne,
Who this same daye now must be maryed:
Yet thoughe I woulde bestowe a Crowne,
That knaue the Clarke can not be spyed.
For he is safe if that in the Alehouse,
He maye syt typlyng of Nutbrowne Ale:
That oft he commes foorth as dronke as Mouse,
With a nose of his owne not greatly pale,
And this is not once, but euery daye,
Almost of my faith, throughe out the whole yeare,
That he these trickes doth vse to playe,
Without all shame, dreade and feare.
He knoweh him selfe that yester nyghte,
The sayde yonge gentelman came to me,
And then desyred, that he myght
This mornynge betymes maryed be.
But now I doubte it wyll be hye noone,
Ere that this busynes be quite ended:
Unlesse the knauysshe foole come very soone,
That this same thinge maye be dispatched,
And therfore synce that this noughty packe,
Hath at this present me thus serued.
He is like hence forwarde my good wyll to lacke
Or els vnwyse I myght be iudged.
I am taught hereafter, howe such a one to trust,
In any matter concernynge the Churche,
For if I shulde, I perceyue that I must,
Of myne owne honestie loose verye much.
And yet for all this, from weeke to weeke,
For his stypende and wages he neuer cryeth,
And for the same contynually doth seeke,
As from tyme to tyme playnely appeareth,
But whyther his wages he hath deserued,
Unto you all I do me reporte,
Since that his duetie he hath not fulfylled,
Nor to the Churche wyll scant resorte.
That many a tyme and oft, I am fayne
To playe the Priest, Clarke, and all
Thoughe thus to do, it is great payne,
And my rewarde but very small,
Wherfore (God wyllynge) I wyll such order take,
Before that I be many dayes elder,
That he shalbe glad this towne to forsake
And learne euermore to please his better.
And in such wyse all they shall be vsed,
Which in this parysshe entende to be Clarkes,
Great pytie it were, the Churche shoulde be disordered
By cause that such Swylbowles do not their warkes.
And to saye trueth, in many a place,
And other great townes besyde this same,
The Priestes and Parishioners be in the lyke case,
Which to the Churchwardens maye be a shame.
How shulde the Priest his offyce fulfyll,
Accordyngly as in dede he ought?
When that the Clarke wyll haue a selfe wyll
And alwayes in Seruice tyme must be sought?
Notwithstandynge at this present there is no remedy
But to take tyme, as it doth fall,
Wherfore I wyll go hence and make me ready
For it helpeth not to chafe or brall.

Here the Priest goeth out, and in commethe the rych man.
The Ryche man.
Commynge this daye foorth of my Chambre,
Euen as for water to wasshe I dyd call,
By chaunce I espyed a certayne straunger,
Standynge beneath within my Hall.
Who in very deede came from the Inholder
Wheras for a tyme my Sonne dyd lye,
And sayde that his mayster had sent me a letter
And bade hym to brynge it with all spede possyblye.
Wherin he did write that as this daye
That vnthrifte my Sonne to a certein Mayde,
Shoulde then be wedded, without further delaye,
And hath borowed more, than wyll be payde.
And synce that he harde, he was my Sonne,
By a Gentelman or two, this other daye:
He thought that it shoulde be very well done,
To let me haue knowledge therof by the waye.
And wylled me if that I woulde any thynge
Of hym to be done of me in this matter:
That then he his Seruaunt such worde shulde brynge
As at his commynge he might do hereafter.
I bade hym thanke his Mayster most hartelye
And sent hym, by hym a peece of Uenison:
For that he vouchesaued to wryte so gentely,
Touchynge the marying and state of my Sonne,
But notwithstandynge I sent hym no Money,
To paye such Dettes as my Sonne dyd owe,
Because he had me forsaken vtterly,
And mee for his good Father wolde not knowe,
And sayde that with hym I woulde not make,
From that daye forwarde, durynge my life
But as he had brewed, that so he shulde bake,
Synce of hys owne choosynge, he gat him a wife.
Thus whan his Seruaunte from me departed
Into my Chambre I went agayne,
And there a great whyle I bitterly weeped,
This newes to me was so great payne:
And thus with these wordes I began to mone,
Lamentynge and mournynge my selfe all a lone.
O madnes, O dotynge of those yonge folke
O myndes without wytte, aduyse, and discretion,
With whom their parentes can beare no stroke
In their first Matrimoniall coniunction
They knowe not what myserye griefe and vnquietnes
Wyll hereafter ensue, of their extreme foolysshenes,
Of all such laboures, they be cleane ignorant,
Which in the nourysshynge and kepynge of Chyldren
To their great charges, it is conuenient
Either of them hencefoorth to sustayne:
Concernynge expences bestowed in a howse
They perceyue as lyttell as doth the Mowse.
On the one syde, the wyfe wyll brall and scolde,
On the other side the Infant wyll crye in the Cradell:
Anone when the Chylde waxeth somwhat olde,
For meate and drynke, he begynnes to babbell.
Herevpon commeth it, that at markettes and fayres
A Husbande is forced to bye many wares.
Yet for all this hath my foolysshe Sonne
As wyse a Wodcocke, without any wytte,
Despysynge his Fathers mynde and opynion,
Maryed a wyfe for hym most vnfytte,
Supposynge that myrth to be euerlastynge,
Which then at the fyrste was greatly pleasynge.
How they two wyll lyue, I can not tell,
Wherto they maye trust, they haue nothynge
My mynde gyueth me, that they wyll come dwell,
At length by their father, for wante of lyuinge,
But my Sonne doubtles, for any thynge that I knowe
Shall reape in such wyse as he dyd sowe,
True he shall fynde, that Hipponactes dyd wryte
Who sayde with a wyfe are two dayes of pleasure
The first is the ioye of the Maryage daye and nyght
The seconde to be at the wyfes Sepulture:
And this by experience he shall proue true,
That of his Brydale great euylles do ensue.
And (as I suppose,) it wyll proue in his lyfe,
When he shall wysshe that to him it maye chaunce,
Which vnto Eupolis and also his wife,
The nyght they were wedded, fell for a vengeaunce
Who with the heuy ruyne of the Bedde were slayne,
As the Poet Ouid in these two Uerses makes playne.
Si tibi coniugii nox prima, nouissima vite,
Eupolis, hoc periit, & noua nupta modo.
Ouidius wrytinge agaynst one Ibis his enemye
That the fyrst night of his Maryage dyd wysshe
The last of his lyfe myght be certenly.
For so (quod he) dyd Eupolis and hys wife perysshe.
Yet to my Soone I praye God to sende
Because thervnto me Nature doth bynde:
Thoughe he hath offended, a better ende,
Then Eupolis and his wyfe dyd fynde.
And nowe I shall longe euer anone,
Tyll some of those quarters come rydynge hyther,
Unto the which my Sonne is gone,
To knowe how they do lyue togyther.
But I am fastynge, and it is almost noone
And more than tyme that I had dyned:
Wherfore from hence I wyll go soone,
I thinke by this tyme, my meate is burned.

Here the Ryche man goeth out, and in cōmeth the yongman his sonne with the yongwoman, beynge both maryed.
The Husbande.
O My sweete wyfe, my pretye Conye.

The Wyfe.
O my Husbande, as pleasaunte as Honnye.

The Husbande.
O Lorde wath pleasures and great commodytie,
Are heaped togyther in Matrimonye?

The Wyfe.
Howe vehement, howe stronge a thynge loue is?
Howe many smyrkes, and dulsome kysses?

The Husbande.
What smylynge? what laughyng?
What sporte, pastyme, and playenge?

The Wyfe.
What ticklynge: what toyinge,
What dalyenge, what ioyenge?

The Husbande.
The man with the wyfe is wholly delyghted
And with many causes to laughter enforced.

The Wyfe.
Whan they two drynke, they drynke togyther
They neuer eate, but one wyth another.

The Husbande.
Somtymes to their Garden foorth they walke
And into the fyeldes somtymes they go,
With mery trickes, and gestures they talke
As they do moue their feete to and fro.

The Wyfe.
Somtymes they ryde into the Countrey
Passynge the tyme wyth mirth and sporte,
And when with their fryndes, they haue ben merye:
Home to their owne house they do resorte.

The Husbande.
Somtymes abrode they go, to see playes,
And other trym syghtes, for to beholde:
When often they meete in the hye wayes
Muche of their aquaintaunce they knewe of olde.

The Wyfe.
Sometymes to the Churche, they do repayre
To here the Sermon that shalbe made:
Thoughe it to remembre, they haue small care,
For why? they be now, but fewe of that trade.

The Husbande.
Somtymes at home, at cardes they playe
Somtymes at this game somtymes at that
They nede not with sadnes to passe the daye
Nor yet to syt styll, or stande in one plat.

The Wyfe.
And as for vs wyfes, occasions do moue,
Somtymes with our Gossyppes to make good cheare
Or els we dyd not, as dyd vs behoue,
For certayne daies and weekes in the yeare.

The Husbande.
I thynke that a man might spende a whole daye
Declarynge the Ioyes, and endles blys:
Which maryed persones receyue alwaye,
If they loue faythfullye, as meete it is.

The Wyfe.
Wyues can not choose, but loue earnestlye
If that their Husbandes do all thynges well
Or eles my sweete harte, we shall espye,
That in quietnes they can not dwell.

The Husbande.
If they do not, it maye be a shame
For I loue you hartele I you assure:
Or els I were truely greatly to blame
Ye are so louynge, so kynde, and demure.

The Wyfe.
I trust that with neither hande or foote,
Ye shall see any occasion by mee:
But that I loue you euen from the harte roote
And durynge my lyfe so intende to be,

The Husbande.
Who then merye Maryage can discōmende
And wyll not with Aristotle in his Ethickes agree?
But wyll saye, that myserye is the ende
When otherwyse I fynde it to be:
A polytique man wyll marye a wyfe
As the Phylosopher makes declaration,
Not onely to haue chyldren by his lyfe,
But also for lyuynge, helpe, & sustentacion.

The Wyfe.
Who wyll not with Herocles playnely confesse,
That Mankynde to Societie is wholly adioynyng?
And in this Societie neuerthelesse:
Of worthy Wedlocke tooke the begynnynge.
Without the which, no Cytie can stande
Nor Housholde be perfecte in any lande.

The Husbande.
Pythagoras, Socrates, and Crates also
Whiche truely were men of very small Substaunce
As I harde my father tell longe ago,
Dyd take them wyfes with a safe conscience:
And dwelled togyther, supposynge that they
Were vnto Philosophy, nother stoppe nor staye.

The Wyfe.
Yea what can be more accordynge to kynde
Then a man to a woman hym selfe to bynde?

The Husbande.
Awaye with those therfore that Mariage despyse
And of daungers therof inuent many lyes.

The Wyfe.
But what is he that commeth yonder,
Do ye not thinke it is our man?
Somewhat there is that he hasteth hyther,
For he makes asmuche speed as he can.

Here the Seruaunte of the Ryche mannes Sonne cōmeth in, with an errande to his Mayster.
Seruaunte.
Mayster there is a Straunger at home
He wolde very fayne with you talke:
For vntyll that to hym you do come
Forth of the doores he wyll not walke.

The Husbande.
Come on then my wyfe, if it be so,
Let vs departe hence for a season:
For I am not well, tyll I do knowe
Of that mannes commynge the very reason.

Here they both go out, and their Seruaunt doth tary behind alone.
Seruaunte.
Let them go bothe, and do what they wyll
And with communicacion fyll their bealy:
For I by Sainct George wyll tary here styll,
In all my lyfe I was neuer so werye.
I haue this daye fylled so many Pottes
With all maner wyne, Ale, and Beere:
That I wysshed their bealyes full of Bottes
Longe of whom was made suche cheare.
What kyndes of meate, both flesshe and fyshe
Haue I poore knaue to the table caryed?
From tyme to tyme dysshe after dysshe,
My legges from goynge neuer ceased.
What runnynge had I for Apples and Nuttes?
What callyng for Biskettes, Cumfettes and Caroweies?
A vengeaunce sayde I, lyght on their guttes
That makes me to turne so many wayes.
What cryinge was there for Cardes and Dice?
What roystynge, what rufflynge made they within?
I counted them all not greatly wyse.
For my head dyd almost ake with dyn.
What bablyng, what ianglynge was in the house?
What quaffyng, what bybbyng with many a Cuppe?
That some laye alonge as dronke as a Mouse
Not able so much as their heades to holde vp.
What daunsynge, what leapyng, what iumpyng about
From benche to benche, and stoole to stoole?
That I wondered their braynes dyd not fall out
When they so out ragiously playde the foole.
What iuglyng was there vpon the boordes?
What thrustyng of knyues throughe many a nose
What bearinge of Formes? what holdinge of Swordes?
And puttynge of Botkyns throughe legge and hose?
Yet for all that they called for dryncke,
And sayde that they coulde not playe for drye
That many at me dyd nodde and wynke
Bycause I shoulde brynge it by and by,
How so euer they sported the pot dyd styll walke
If that were awaye, then all was lost:
For euer anone the Iugge was their talke,
They paste not who bare such charge and coste.
Therfore let hym looke his Purse be ryght good,
That it may discharge all that is spente,
Or els it wyll make hys haere growe through his hood
There was suche hauocke made at this present,
But I am afearde my maister be angrye
That I dyd abyde thus longe behynde:
Yet for his angre I passe not greatly,
His wordes they be but onely wynde,
Now that I haue rested so longe in this place
Homewarde agayne, I wyll hye me apase.

Here the Seruaunte goeth out, and in cōmeth fyrst the Wyfe, and shortely after the Husbande.
The Wyfe.
Where is my Husbande, was he not here?
I meruayle much whyther he is gone
Than I perceyue I am much the nere,
But loe, where he commeth hyther alone.
Wot ye what Husband, from daye to daye,
With dayntye dysshes, our bodyes haue bene fylled:
What meate to morowe nexte shall we assaye?
Wherby we may then be both refresshed.

The Husbande.
Do ye nowe prouyde and gyue a regarde
For Uictualles hereafter to be preparde?

The Wyfe.
But that I knowe Husbande, it lyeth vs in hande
Of thynges to come to haue a consyderacion
I would not ones wyll you to vnderstande
Aboute such busynes my carefull prouision:
It is nedefull therfore to worke we make hast
That to get both our lyuynges we may knowe the cast.

The Husbande.
To trouble me nowe, and make me vexed,
This mischieuous meane hast thou inuented.

The Wyfe.
What trouble for thee? what kynde of vexacion?
Haue I to disquiet thee, caused at this present?
My onely mynde is, thou make expedycion
To seke for our profyte as is conuenient.
Wherfore to thee I saye ones agayne,
Bycause to take paynes thou art so lothe,
By Christ it were best, with might and mayne
To fall to some worke, I sweare a great othe.

The Husbande.
Yet for a tyme, if it maye thee please
Let me be quit, and take myne ease.

The Wyfe.
Wilt thou haue vs then throughe hungre be starued:

The Husbande.
I woulde not we shulde for hungre be kylled.

The Wyfe.
Then I saye then, this geare go about,
And looke that thou laboure diligently:
Or els thou shalt shortly proue without doubt,
Thy sluggysshnes wyll not please me greatly.

The Husbande.
Begynnest thou euen now to be paynefull & greuous
And to thy Husbande, a woman so troublous?

The Wyfe.
What wordes haue we here, thou misbegotten,
Is there not alredy ynoughe to the spoken?

The Husbande.
O myrth, O Ioye, O pastyme and pleasure,
How lyttell a space, do you endure?

The Wyfe.
I see my cōmaundement can take no place,
Thou shalt abye therfore, I sweare by the Masse.

Here the Wyfe must stryke her Husbande handesomlye aboute the Shoulders with some thyng.
The Husbande.
Alas good wyfe, good wyfe, alas, alas,
Stryke not so harde, I praye thee hartelye,
What soeuer thou wylte haue brought to passe
It shalbe done with all spede possyblye.

The Wyfe.
Laye these Faggottes man vpon thy shoulder
And carye thys wood from streete to strete:
To sell the same, that we both togyther,
Our lyuynge may get, as is most mete.
Hence Nidiot hence, without more delaye
What meanest thou thus, to stagger and staye?

The Husbande.
O Lorde what howe myserable men be those
Whiche to their wyfes as wretches be wedded
And haue them contynually their mortall foes
Seruynge them thus, as Slaues that be hyred.
Nowe by experience true I do fynde,
Whiche oftentymes vnto me heretofore
My father dyd saye, declarynge his mynde
That in Matrymonie was payne euermore,
What shall I do most pityfull Creature?
Iuste cause I haue alas to lament:
That franticke woman my death wyll procure
If so be this daye without gayne be spent
For vnlesse for my wood som Money be taken
Lyke a dogge, with a Cudgell I shalbe beaten.
Ho thou good felowe which standest so nye
Of these heauy bundelles ease my sore backe:
And somewhat therfore gyue me by and by
Or els I dye, for Syluer I do lacke.
Nowe that I haue some Monye receyued
For this my burden home I wyll go:
And lest that my wyfe be discontented,
What I haue take, I wyll her showe.
Wyfe I am come, I went a longe waye
And here is the profyte, and gaynes of this daye.

The Wyfe.
Why thou Lowte, thou foole, thou horson falte,
Is this thy wood money, thou peuisshe Dolte?
Thou shalt smart for this geare, I make God a vowe
Thou knowest no more to sell wood, then doth the sowe.

The Husbande.
By Goddes precious I wyll not vnwysely suffre
To do as I haue done, any longer.

The Wyfe.
Why doest thou ryse against me Uillayne?
Take hede I scrache not out thy eyes twayne.

The Husbande.
Scratche and thou dare, for I haue a knyfe,
Perchaunce I wyll ryd the of thy lyfe.

The Wyfe.
Slaye me with thy knyfe, thou shytten Dastarde?
Doest thou thinke to fynde me suche a Dissarde?
By Coxe bones I wyll make thy skyn to rattell,
And the braynes in thy Scull more depely to sattell.

Here the wyfe must laye on lode vppon her Husbande.
The Husbande.
Good wyfe be content, forgeue my this faulte
I wyll neuer agayne do that which is naught.

The Wyfe.
Go to foolysshe Calfe, go to, and vpryse,
And put vp thy knyfe, I the aduise.

The Husbande.
I wyll do your cōmaundementes what soeuer.

The Wyfe.
Hence awaye then, and fyll this with water.

The Husbande.
O mercyfull God, in what lamentable state
Is he, of whom the wyfe is the mayster?
Wolde God I had bene predestinate,
On my Maryage daye, to haue dyed wyth a Feuer.
O wretched creature, what maye I do?
My grieuous wyfe shall I returne vnto?
Lo wyfe beholde without further delaye
The water ye sent for, here I do brynge.

The Wyfe.
What I saye? what meaneth this weepynge?
What ayleth the to make all this cryinge?

The Husbande.
I weepe not forsothe, nor crye not as yet.

The Wyfe.
No, nor thou wilte not, if thou haste any wyt,
It is not thy weepynge, that can ought auayle,
And therfore this matter no longer bewayle.
Come of I saye, and runne to the Ryuer
And wasshe these clothes in the water.

The Husbande.
Wyfe I wyll thyther hye me faste.

The Wyfe.
Yet I aduyse the, thou Cullyon make hast.

The Husbande.
O howe vnhappye and eke vnfortunate
Is the moste parte of maryed mennes condycion?
I woulde to death I had bene agate
When my Mother in bearynge me made lamentacion.
What shall I do? whyther shall I turne,
Most carefull man nowe vnder the Skye?
In the flamynge fyre, I had rather burne,
Then with extreme payne, lyue so heauylye,
There is no shyfte, to my wyfe I must go
Whom that I dyd wed, I am full wo.
Where are ye wyfe, your clothes are washte cleane
As whyte as a lylly without spot or steyne.

The Wyfe.
Thou thefe, thou caytyfe, why is not this place,
Wasshed as fayre as all the rest,
Thou shalt for this geare now smoke apase
By gys I sweare, thou brutysshe Beaste.

Here shee must knocke her Husbande.
The Husbande.
Alas, alas, I am almost quyte dead,
My wyfe so pytyfully hath broken my head.

Here her Husbande must lye alonge on the grounde as thoughe hee were sore beaten and wounded.
The Wyfe.
Well I perceyue, the tyme wyll awaye
And into the Countrey to go I haue promysed
Looke therfore thou go not from hence to daye
Tyll home agayne I am returned.
Take hede I saye, this Howse thee retayne,
And styrre not for any thynge out of my doore:
Untill that I come hyther agayne,
As thou wylte be rewarded therfore.

Here his Wyfe goeth out, and the Husbande taryeth behinde alone.
The Husbande.
The flyinge and fiende go with my wyfe
And in her Iourney ill maye she speede:
I praye God almighty to shorten her lyfe
The earth at no tyme doth beare suche a weede.
Althoughe that I be a Gentelman borne
And come by my Auncetours of a good blood,
Yet am I lyke to weare a Cote torne
And hither and thither go carye wood.
But rather then I this lyfe wyll abyde
To morowe mornynge I do intende,
Home to my Father agayne to ryde,
If some man to me his Horse wyll lende.
She is to her Gossypes gone to make mery,
And there she wyll be for three or foure dayes:
She cares not thoughe I do nowe miscarye
And suffre such payne and sorowe alwayes.
She leaueth to me neyther Breade nor drynke
But such as I iugde, no bodye wolde eate:
I myght by the walles lye dead and stynke
For any great holsomnes in my meate.
She walketh a brode, and taketh her pleasure
Her selfe to cherysshe is all her care:
She passeth not what griefe I endure,
Or howe I can lyue with noughty fare:
And synce it is so, without further delaye
To my father to morowe I wyll awaye.

Here he goeth out, and in cōmeth the Deuyll.
Satan
the Deuyll.

Here the Deuyll goeth out, and in cōmeth the Rychmans Sonne alone.
The Sonne.
Here he confesseth his noughtynes vttring the same with a pitifull voice.
Here the Ryche man must be as it were cōmynge in.

The father.
Ah myne owne chylde, with the what chere?

The Sone.
All such sayinges as in my mynde,
At the fyrst tyme ye studied to sattell,
Most true alas, I do them fynde,
As thoughe they were written in the Gospell.

The Father.
Those wordes my Sonne, I haue almost forgotten,
Stande vp therfore, and kneele no longer:
And what it was I spake so often,
At two or three wordes, recyte to thy Father.

The Sonne.
If that ye be Father well remembred
As the same I beleue ye can not forget:
You sayde that so soone as I were maryed,
Much payne and trouble therby I shoulde get.

The Father.
Haste thou by proofe sonne, this thynge tryed?

The Sonne.
Yea, alas to much I haue experyenced:
My wyfe, I dyd wed, all full of frensye,
My selye poore shoulders, hath now so broused,
That lyke to a Creple, I moue me weakly,
Beynge full often with the staffe thwacked:
She spareth no more my flesshe and bone,
Than if my bodye were made of Stone,
Her wyll, her mynde, and her Cōmaundement,
From that daye hyther, I haue fulfylled:
Which if I dyd not, I was bytterly shent,
And with many strokes greuously punysshed:
That woulde God the houre when I was maryed,
In the midste of the Church I might haue synked.
I thynke ther is no man vnder the Sonne
That here on the earth beareth lyfe:
Which wolde do such drudgerye, as I haue done,
At the vnkynde wordes of suche a wyfe,
For howe I was vsed, and in what wyse
A daye to declare wyll not suffyse.
Yf this be not true, as I haue spoken
To my good neyghbours I me reporte,
Who other whyles when I was smytten
My wyfe to be gentle, dyd then exhorte:
For glad I was to abyde all laboure
Wherby the lesse might be my doloure.
Wherfore good Father I you humblye desyre
To haue pitye of me and some compassion?
Or els I am lyke to lye fast in the myre,
Without any succoure or consolation:
For at this houre I haue not a peny,
My selfe to helpe in this great myserye.

The Father.
For so muche as by my aduyse and counsell
In no maner wyse thou woldest be ruled:
Therfore to the I can not do well,
But let the styll suffre, as thou haste deserued
For that thou hast suffred, is yet nothynge
To that trybulation which is behinde cōmynge.

The Sonne.
Alas Father, what shall I do?
My wyttes of them selues can not deuyse,
What thynge I were best to goe vnto,
Wherof an honest lyuynge maye aryse:
Wherfore gentle Father in this distresse,
Somewhat aswage myne heuynes.

The Father.
What shoulde I do I can not tell,
For now that thou hast taken a wyfe
With me thy father thou mayst not dwell,
But alwayes with her spende thy lyfe.
Thou mayst not agayne thy wyfe forsake,
Which durynge lyfe to the thou dydst take.

The Sonne.
Alas I am not able thus to endure
Thoughe therunto I were neuer so wyllynge:
For my wyfe is of such a crooked nature
As no woman els, is this daye lyuynge,
And if the verye trueth I shall confesse
She is to me an euyll that is endlesse.

The Father.
If that thou thinkest thy selfe alone
Onely to leade this yrkesome lyfe.
Thou maiest learne what griefe, sorowe and mone,
Socrates had with Xantippa his wyfe.
Her Husbande full ofte she tawnted and checked
And as the Booke saythe vnhonestly mocked.

The Sonne.
I can not tell, what was Socrates wyfe
But myne I do knowe alas to well,
She is one that is euermore full of stryfe
And of all Scolders beareth the Bell.
When she speaketh best, then brawleth her tonge
When she is styll she fyghteth apace:
She is an olde Witch thoughe she be yonge,
No mirth with her, no ioye or solace.

The Father.
I can not my Sonne thy state redresse,
Me thy Father thou dydst refuse:
Wherfore now helpe thy owne foolyshenes,
And of thy wyfe no longer muse.

The Sonne.
My wyfe went foorth ni to the Countrey
With certayne Gossyppes to make good chere,
And bad me at home styll to be,
That at her returne, she might fynde me there:
And if that she do take me from home,
My bones alas shee wyll make to crackell:
And me her Husbande as a starke mome,
With knockyng and mockynge she wyll handell.
And therfore if I maye not here remayne,
Yet louynge Father, geue me your rewarde,
That I may with speede ride haue againe,
That to my wyfes wordes, haue some regarde.

The Father.
If that at the fyrst thou woldest haue bene ordered.
And done as thy Father counsayled the:
So wretched a lyfe had neuer chaunced
Wherof at this present thou complaynest to me.
But yet come on, to my house wee wyll be goynge
And ther thou shalt see, what I wyll gyue:
A lytell to helpe thy nedye lyuynge:
Synce that in such penurye thou doest lyue,
And that once done, thou must hence agayne
For I am not he, that wyll the retayne.

Here the Ryche man and his Sonne go out, and in cōmeth the Peroratour.