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A quiet man (to wrath and anger flow)
Match'd with a queane (a most she-deuill shrow)
That kept him in obedience with her fist,
To doe, or leaue vndone, euen what she list.
Vpon a time (choller growne very hot,
Against the haire) a broken pate he got,
But patiently wore night-cap sickeman like,
And vow'd a woman he would neuer strike,
Being content to pocket that abuse,
And keepe true manhood for a better vse.
A friend met with him, and demanded why
He wore a linnen cap so pensiuely?
Alas (quoth he) sorrow doth much offend,
My wife's so ill I feare she n'ere will mend,
No Doctor that will vndertake her cure,
For greife where of great head-ache I endure.
And had besides a flux of blood of late
To thinke vpon her desperate estate:
Shee's sencelesse growne, and will no reason heare,
And so will lie long on my hand I feare.

When the fit comes she is outragious mad,
Oh tis an old disease her mother had,
Runs through the blood, because t'was bred i'th bone,
But here's my comfort, I am not alone:
Diuers my Neighbours I doe vnderstand,
Haue wiues with like diseases on their hand,
Whose fits they must endure as I doe mine,
Which makes me beare my crosse with lesse repine.
A Doctor that did view her vrine late,
Hath thus describ'd her desperate estate,
She hath a female frenzie in the braine,
Her tongue the curelesse palsie doth containe,
In speach growne sencelesse, reason doth abhor it,
Her heart is heart-burn'd, there's no cooling for it:
Her stomacke full of choller, corrupt gall,
Her fingers, fists, and nailes, rancke venim all,
No potion, nor no pill, can do her good,
Sweet gentle Doctor Death come let her blood.