University of Virginia Library

Here entreth in Destinie and Desire.
I represent the part that men report,
To be a plague to men in many a sort.

Destinie.
I am, which as your Proverbs go,
In wedding or hanging am taken for a fo,
Where as indeed the truth is nothing so.
Be it well or ill as all things hap in fine,
The praise or dispraise ought not to be mine.

Desire.
I am glad I met you.

Destinie.
Whither jet you?

Desire.
I jet I tell you true, to seek and see you,
To tell you such newes, as I cannot chuse.

Destinie.
I pray you what is that?

Desire.
Sirra know you not Tom Tyler your man?

Destinie.
Yes Marry, what than?

Desire.
He made sute to me, his friend for to be,
To get him a wife, to lead a good life.
And so I consented, and was well contented,
To help him to woo, with all I could do.
And married he is.

Destinie.
But what for all this?

Desire.
Marry that shall you know, his wife is a shrow,
And I hear tell, she doth not use him well.
Wherefore he speaks shame of thee and my name.

Destinie.
If you so framed, to have your name blamed,
Or your deeds be noughtie, what am I faultie?
I know no cause why;

Desire.
No more do I.
I did my good will, and though he sped ill,
I care not a Flie.

Destinie.
Let them two trie.
They match as they can, the wife and good man,
In wealth or in wo, as matters do go.
And let us not mind, their lot to unbind,
But rather forget them,

Desire.
Marry so let them.
For as for my part, though it long to my Art
Mens hearts to inflame, their fancie to frame
When they have obtained, I am not constrained
To do any more.

Destinie.
Content thee therefore,
And let thy heart rest, for so it is best.
And let us away, as fast as we may,
For fear he come to you.

Desire.
Marry have with you.

Here they both go in.
Tom Tyler
commeth in singing.
A Song.

The song ended, Tom Tyler speaketh
T. Tiler.
You see with what fashion I plead my passions;
By marrying of Strife, which I chose to my wife,
To leade such a life, with sorrow and grief,
As I tell you true, is to bad for a Iew.
She hath such skill, to do what she will,
To gossip and to swill, when I fare but ill.
I must work sore, I must get some more,
I must still send it, and she will still spend it,
I pray God amend it, but she doth not intend it.
What should I say, but high me away,
And do my work duly, where ich am paid truly?
For if my wife come, up goeth my bomme,
And she should come hither, and we met together,
I know we shall fight, and eke scratch and bite.
I therefore will go hie me, and to my work plie me,
As fast as I can.

Here Tom Tyler goeth in, and his wife cometh out.
Strife.
Alasse silly man;
What a husband have I, as light as a flie?
I leap and I skip, I carry the whip,
And I bear the bell; If he please me not well,
I will take him by the pole, by cocks precious soul
I will make him to toil, when I laugh and smile;
I will fare of the best, I will sit and take rest,
And make him to find all things to my mind.
And yet sharp as the wind, I will use him unkind,
And fain my self sick; there is no such trick,
To dolt with a Daw, and keep him in awe.
I will teach him to know the way to Dunmoe.
At bord and at bed, I will crack the knaves head,
If he look but awry, or cast a sheeps eye:
So shall I be sure, to keep him in ure,
To serve like a knave, and live like a slave.
And in the mean season, I will have my own reason;
And no man to controle me, to pil or to pole me,
Which I love of life.

Sturdie.
God speed gossip Strife.

Sturdie entreth.
Strife.
Well met Goodwife Sturdie, both welcom and worthie
And ever I thank ye.

Sturdie.
I pray you go prank ye,
Ye are dew old huddle.

Strife.
The Pigs in the puddle.
But now welcome indeed, and ye be agreed,
Let us have some chat.

Sturdie.
Marry why nat?
For I am come hither, to gossip together,
For I drank not to day.

Strife.
So I hear say.
But I tell you true, I thought not of you,
Yet the ale-wife of the Swan, is filling the Can,
With spice that is fine, and part shall be thine,
If that thou wilt tarrie.

Sturdie.
Why, yes by Saint Mary;
Else were I a fool.

Here entreth Tipple, with a pot in her hand, and a piece of Bacon.
Tip.
Marrie here is good rule.
A sight of good guesse.

Strife.
Never a one lesse, now Tipple is come.

Tipple.
And here is good bum, I dare boldly say.

Sturdie.
Why had not I some of this tother day?

Tipple.
Make much of it now, and glad that ye may.
Come, where shall we sit? and here is a bit
Of a Gammon of Bacon.

Strife.
Well said by Laron.
Sit down even here, and fall to it there:
I would it were better for ye;
As long lives a merry heart as a sorrie.

Tipple.
Where is Tom Tiler now, where is he?

Strife.
What carest thou where a dolt should be.
And where is your good man?

Tipple.
Forsooth nought at home, he is abrod for pence.

Sturdie.
Well, I had need to go hence,
Least my good man do misse me.

Strife.
I would teach him John come kisse me,
If the dolt were mine.

Sturdie.
Alas are you so fine!
Would God in all your chere, Tom Tiler saw you here;

Strife.
Whaf and if he did?

Tipple.
Marrie God forbid, the house would be too hot,

Strife.
Now by this pewter pot,
And by this drink I will drink now,
God knows what I think now.

Sturdie.
What think you Gossip Strife?

Strife.
I had rather then my life,
My husband would come hither,
That we might busk together,
Ye should see how I could tame him.

Tipple.
Alas, and could ye blame him,
If that he were displeased?

Strife.
He shall be soon appeased,
If either he gaspeth or glometh.

Tom Tiler cometh in.
Sturdie.
By gods blew hood he cometh.
Away, by the Masse away, he will us all else fray.

Tom.
These summer daies be verie drie.

Strife.
Yea, that is a devil a lie.
A knave, what dost thou here?

Tom.
Ich should have a pot of beer, & go to work again.

Strife.
Yea knave, shall honest men
Go hire thee by the day, and thou shalt go away,
To loyter to and fro? I will teach thee for to know
How fast the houres go. One, two, and three.

T. Tiler.
I pray thee let be.

She beateth him.
Strife.
Four, five and six; Lord, that I had some sticks,
I would clapper claw thy bones,
To make you tell your stones,
The worser while I know you;

T. Tiler.
Good wife I beshrew you;
I pray you leave tnmbling.

Strife.
Yea knave are you mumbling?
Hence ye knave hence, bring me home pence,
Afore ye go to bed, or I will break your knaves head,
Till the blood go about.

T. Tiler.
Now our Lord keep we out,
Tom Tiler goeth out.
From this wicked wife.

Sturdie.
Why, how now Strife? here is prettie rule;

Strife.
Hold your peace fool, it is no news for me;
Let this talk be, and fall to your chere.

Tipple.
Here is good beer, quaff and be merrie.

Strife.
I am half wearie with chiding alreadie.

Sturdie.
Keep your brains steddie,
And fall to your drinking.

Tipple.
Nay fall to singing, and let us go dance.

Strife.
By my troth chance, and let us begin,
Rise up gossips, and I will bring you in.

Here they sing.

Tom Tiler, Tom Tiler,
More morter for Tom Tiler.

Strife
singeth this staff.

Tipple
singeth this staffe.

Sturdie
singeth this staffe.

Here they end singing, and Tipple speaketh.
Tipple.
Alas poor Tom, his Cake is dow.

Sturdie.
Ye may see what it is to meet with a shrow.
And now we have soong this merry fit,
Let us now leave gossiping yet.

Strife.
Hold your peace fooles, ye have no wit
Fill in and spare not, swill in, I care not.
This drink is ipse, to make us all tipse.
And now gossip Sturdie, if I may be so worthie,
Half this I drink to you.

Sturdie.
The headache will sting you, I fear me anon,
Therefore let us be gone, I heartily pray you.

Strife.
Tipple, What say you, will you drink no more?

Tipple.
I have tippled sore I promise you plain,
Yet once and no more, have at you again.

Strife.
Ho, pray God, ho.

Sturdie.
So, So, So, So.

Here they sing again.

Another Song.

Here they end singing, and Tipple speaketh first.
Tipple.
So merily goes the merie mill a;
Hold, here is my can.

Sturdie.
Nay I beshrow my hart than,
I must depart, therefore adew.

Strife.
Then tarrie and take us all with you.
Come Gossips, come.

Here they go all in, and Tom Tiler cometh out:
T. Tiler.
I am a tiler as you see, a simple man of my degree,
Yet many have need of me, to keep them clean and drie;
And specially in the Summer time
To pin their tiles, and make their lime,
And tile their houses to keep out rain,
Being well rewarded for my pain.
And where I work by week or day,
I truly earn it and they truly pay;
I would desire no better life;
Except that God would change my wife.
If she were gone, and I were free,
What tiler then were like to mee?
For howsoever I travel, she uses me like a Javel,
And goeth from house to house, as drunk as a mouse;
Giving and granting, checking and taunting,
Bragging and vaunting, flouting and flaunting.
And when I come home, she makes me a mome;
And cuts my comb, like a hop on my thomb,
With contrary biting too dear of reciting.
But this is the end, if I could get a friend
Some council to give me, you would not believe me
How glad I would be.

Enter Tom Tayler.
T. Tailer.
The wiser man he. Tom. Tiler how now?

T. Tiler.
Tom Tayler, how dost thou?

Tayler.
After the old sort, in mirth and jolly sport,
Tayler-like I tell you.

T. Tyler.
Ah sirra I smell you.
You have your hearts ease, to do what you please,
But I have heard tell, that you have the hell.

Tayler.
Marrie that is well. But what if I have?

T. Tiler.
May not I crave one friendly good turn,
While the fire doth burn, to put my wife to such ill fare?

Tayler.
In faith I do not care,
But what meanest thou by this?

T. Tiler.
To live in some blisse, and be rid of my wife.

Tayler.
Why are you at strife, what is the cause?

T. Tiler.
When I come in her clawes,
She guides me for ever; but help me now or never,
As I told thee before,
Put her in hell, and I care for no more.

Tayler.
Why foolish knave, what hell should I have?
With a wild evil am I a Devil?
Thou art out of thy wit.

T. Tiler.
No bum fay not yet, though I am vext with a fit
Of a liberal wife, that will shorten my life.
And thou be no devil, take it not evil;
For I heard tell, that thou hast a hell.
And I have a wife, so devilish in strife,
Which cannot do well, and therefore meeter for hell,
Then here to remain.

Tayler.
If the matter be so plain;
Then what wilt thou say, if I find the way
By words to intreat her, and after to beat her
If she will not be ruled.

T. Tiler.
She is to well schooled with too many shrowes
To receive any blowes, never think so.

Tayler.
If she be such a shrow, somthing at her throw.
Stand to it foolish calf, I will be thy half.
What will she fight?

T. Tiler.
Yea her fingers be very light
And that do I find, her checks be so unkind.
Alwayes and ever, she is pleased never,
But fuming and freating, buffeting and beating;
Of this my silly costard.

Tayler.
A hoorson dostard. And what dost thou than?

T. Tiler.
Like a poor man,
Desiring her gently to let me live quietly.

Tayler.
Now of mine honestie I like thee the better.
And wouldest thou let her?

T. Tiler.
Yea, and so would you, I tell you true,
If you were in my case.

Tayler.
Nay then by Gods grace,
I will prove by your leave, if she can me deceive
By any such sort, ye shall see a good sport.
Put off thy coat and all thy apparel;
And for thy quarrel I will make speed.
And put on thy weed, come on and unray thee.

T. Tiler.
And what now I pray thee.

Tayler.
Come give me the rest.

T. Tiler.
I wene you do jest. What mean you by this?

Tayler.
No harm sir I wis.
Now get me a cudgel, this is wondrous well,
Now am I well armed if now I be harmed,
I may chance to beguile her, for beating Tom Tiler;
Now Thomas my friend, this is the end;
You say your wife will fight, her fingers be so light;
If she have such delight, I will conjure the sprite,
If she come neer, while I tarrie here.
Therefore stand by, and when thou hearest me crie,
Come help me to cheer me.

T. Tiler.
Nay I must not come neer thee,
Here Tom Tiler goeth in a while.
Be certain of that.

Tayler.
Well if you will not, make no more debating.

Strife.
Ye Knave are ye prating?
Enter Strife.
When you should be at work, do you loiter and lurk?
Take that for your labour.

Tayler.
Nay faith by your favour I will pay you again,
There is for me to requite your pain.

Strife.
Yea Knave are you striking?

Tayler.
Yea whore, are ye greeking?

Strife.
In faith ye Knave I will cool you.

Tayler.
In faith ye whore I will rule you.

Strife.
Yea Knave are ye so fresh?

Tayler.
Yea whoore I will plague your flesh.

Strife.
And I will displease thee a little better;

Tayler.
And in faith I will not die thy debter.
How now, how like you your match?

Strife.
As I did ever, even like a Patch.
Ah Knave, wilt thou strike thy wife?

Tayler.
Yea marrie, I love this gear alife.

Strife.
Hold thy hand, and thou be a man.

Tayler.
Kneel down and ask me forgiveness then.

Strife.
Ah whoorson Knave my bones is sore.

Tayler.
Ah unhappie whore; do so then no more.

Strife.
I pray thee be still, thou shalt have thy will.
I will do so no more, I am sorrie therefore.
I will never more strike, nor profer the like,
Alas I am killed.

Tayler.
Nay thou art ilwilled as thou hast been ever.
But trouble me never, I advise thee again.
For I will brain thee then.
Now praise at thy parting.

Strife.
Wo worth overwharting that ever I knew,
I am beaten so blew, and my gall is all burst.
I thought at the first he had been a dolt.
But I bridled a Colt of a contrarie hare,
Soure sauce is now my chear.
Therefore I will away, for I get nought by this play;
And get me to bed, and dresse up my head.
I am so sore beaten with blowes.

He fireth in.
Tayler.
It is hard matching with shrowes.
I see well enough the Damsel was tough,
And loth for to bend. But I think in the end
I made her to bow. But where is Tom now?
That he may know how all matters do stand.

T. Tiler enters.
T. Tiler.
Here sir at hand. How now Tom Tayler?

Tayler.
Much ado to quail her.
But I beleeve my girds do her grieve,
I dare be bold, she longs not to scold,
Nor use her old sport, in such devilish sort;

T. Tiler.
I pray thee why so?

Tayler.
I have made her so wo, so black and so blew,
I have changed her hew and made her to bend;
That to her lives end she will never offend
In word nor in deed. Therefore now take heed
She strike thee no more.

T, Tiler.
Ich will stroke thee therefore;
And Tom God a mercy.

Tayler.
She looked arsie versie at her first coming in,
And so did begin with sowring of showes,
And fell to fair blowes.
But then I behide me, and she never spide me;
What I was I am sure. Therefore get thee to her;
And get thee to bed, whatsoever is said.
And care not a straw, for thou hast her in awe.
She is so well beaten, she dare not once threaten,
Nor give thee any ill word at bed and at boord,
But grunting and groning, thon shalt find her moning
Her piteous case with a saint Johns face,
I warrant well painted, for I stroke till she fainted,
And paid her for all ever,
Till she said she would never be churlish again.

T. Tiler.
Let me alone with my damsel then;
And if I be able, without any fable
I will quit thee.

Tayler.
If she crossebite thee,
Hence forth evermore, beswinge her therefore,
And keep her up short, from all her old sport.
And she will not be ruled, let her be cooled.

T. Tiler.
But I dare say, she will think of this day,
All her life long.

Tayler.
Shall we have then a good song,
For joy of this glee betwixt her and thee?

T. Tiler.
By my troth if you will, I shall fulfil
As much as I can.

Tayler.
Let us sing than
The tying of the Mare, that went out of square.

T. Tiler.
By my troth any you dare, go to begin.

Here they sing.

Tie, tie, tie the mare, tie,
Lest she stray from thee away;
Tie the mare Tomboy.

Tom Tiler
singeth.

Tom Tailer
singeth.

Tom Tiler
singeth.

Tom Tayler
singeth.

Here they end singing, and Tom Tayler first speaketh.
Tayler.
Well now to your charge,
Let her run no more at large.
But now she is so well framed,
If she do ill you must be blamed,
Therefore take hood heed.

T. Tiler.
Yes that I will indeed.
And I thank you for your pain,
As I am bound I tell you plain.

Tayler.
Well Thomas fare you well,
Tom Tayler goeth in.
Till you come where I do dwell.

T. Tiler.
Ah sirra this is trim, that my wife is coold by him.
I marvel how she took the matter;
And how she will look when I come at her;
And whether she be well or sick;
For my part I doe not stick
To do my dutie as I ought,
Yet will I never die for thought,
I will go hie me home.

Tom Tyler goeth in.
Here entereth Sturdie and Tipple.
Sturdie.
Farewell good honest mome.
Tipple, How likest thou this match?
Wouldst thou have thought the Patch,
Would have beat his wife so black and blew from top to toe
Being such a simple fool?

Tipple.
Belike he hath learned in a new school
Whereat I cannot chuse but laffe,
The still Sow eateth up all the draffe.
Beware of such wily Pies.

Sturdie.
But she, an she be wise,
Will seek some way to rook him.

Tipple.
It is too late to break him, if now he get the better.

Sturdie.
If she can do so, let her;
I dare be bold to say, she will do what she may.
Lo here she cometh creeping,
Alas for wo and weeping,
Enter Strife fair and softly, wailing and weeping.
The truth will now appear.

Strife.
Alas and well away.

Strife.
How ill have I been used, my bones be all to brused.
My flesh is plagued vily, and my head is woundey hily.
My arms be back and blew, and all my sides be new.

Sturdie.
Though all this be with you Gossip, discomfort never.

Tipple.
He watched ye once for ever.
But trust his hands no more.

Strife.
Alas I am so sore,
I can neither stand nor sit but am beside my wit;
And never well apaid, till that I may be laid
To ease me on my bed.

Sturdie.
Bind this about your head.
And hardly lay you down, we must into the town;
And after that, surely then we will come to you again;
And I pray you be of good cheer.

Tipple.
I am sorrie to see you here
In such unhappie case, but take some heart of grace,
Good Gossip I pray you,

Strife.
Alas neighbours, I stay you
From your businesse perhaps, but I will take a nap,
If I can where I lie.

Sturdie.
Then we will see yon again by and by.

Sturdie and Tipple goeth out, and Tom Tiler cometh in.
T. Tiler.
I heard say my wife is abominable sick,
Indeed she was beat with an unhappie stick,
Gods, look where she lies, close with her eyes,
That is well said I will get me to bed,
And lay me hard by her, and yet not too nie her,
For feare I awake her, a good yeare take her,
For using me so.

Strife.
Out alas, O, O,
My bones, my bones, fall in peeces at ones,!
Alas, alas, I die. O husband, husband why,
Why have you done so? I was never your foe,
So much as you make me, and so you may take me,
If I have you offended, it shall be amended.
Alas wherefore should ye beate me a so soare?

T, Tyler.
You would be still never, but buffet me, ever,
And Gossip at will, when I must work still.
And take ill your pleasure, and braul without measure
And now you may see, as the old sayings bee,
God sendeth now, short hornes to a curst Cow.
I come home merrily, when you sit verely
Lowring and pouting, knawing and lowting.
And I was your noddy, as much as no body.

Strife.
Alas what than, you being a man,
Should beare with my folly, and you being holly,
Might councel me, tho not beating me so.
I thought I should find, you loving and kinde,
And not of this minde.
For us to wax foes, for such crewel blowes,
I tell you plaine, I married my bane,
When I married thee, as far as I see.

T. Tiler.
Wife I am sorrie, this ill is befalne ye.
But I tell you true, the fault was in you.
For till this day, I dare boldlie say,
I never did proffer you such an offer;
It was your owne seeking.

Strife.
I beshrew such striking.
So close by the ribs, you may strike your tibs
So, well enough.

T. Tiler.
This rage and this ruffe
Need not to be, wife if ye love me,
Let us agree, in love and amitie,
And do so no more, I am sory therefore,
I take God to my judge, that ever this grudge,
Should happen to be, between you and me.

Strife.
Alas, I may mone I might have been woone
With half these strokes, but curstnesse provokes
Kind hearts to dissever, and hatred for ever
Most commonly growes, by dealing of blowes.
Therefore blame not me, if I cannot love ye;
While we two have life.

T. Tiler.
By my halydome Wife;
Because you say so, now shall ye know
If you will content you, that I do lament you.
For I will tell you true, When I saw you
Ever brawling and fighting, and ever crossebiting,
Which made me still wo, that you should thus do;
At last hereafter, I complaind the matter
To Tom Tayler my Master, who taking a waster
Did put on my coat, since ye will needs know it;
And so being disguised, he interprised
To come in my steed; and having my weed
You pleading your passion after the old fashion;
Thinking it was I, stroke him by and by,
Then straight did he in steed of me,
Currie your bones, as he said for the nones,
To make you obey.

Strife.
Is it even so as you say?
Gods fish you Knave, did you send such a slave
To revenge your quarrel in your apparel?
Thou shalt abide as dearlie as I,
I thought by this place, thou hadst not the face
To beat me so sore. Have at thee once more.
I now wax fresh co plague a Knaves flesh
That hath so plagued me, for everie blow three.
Be sure I will pay you, till you do as I would have you.
Ah whoreson Dolt thou whorson subtle Colt;
Son of an Oxe, how like you your knocks?
The pils and the pox, and the poison in box
Consume such a Knave, and bring him to grave.
The Crowes and the Pies, and the verie flesh flies
Desire to plague thee. In faith I will plague thee.

T. Tiler.
O wife, wife, I pray thee save my life.
You hurt me ever, I hurted you never,
For Gods sake content thee.

Strife.
Nay thou shalt repent thee,
That ever Tom Tayler, that Ruffian and railer
Was set to beat me, he had better he had eat me;
I hope for to find some tosser so kind
To currie that Knave, for the old grudge I have,
As now I do thee; there is one more for me.
Kneel down on your knee, yon hoddie doddee;
I will make you to stoop though you set cock on hoop
For joy of Tom Tayler, that he could beguile her.
Take that for her sake, some mirth for to make,
Like an asse as you be.

T. Tiler.
Why should you strike me
For another mans fault?

Strife.
Because thou art naught,
Enter Sturdie and Tipple.
And he a vile Knave.

Sturdie.
What more can ye have?
Enough is enough, as good as a feast.

Strife.
He shall bear me one cuff yet more like a beast.

Tipple.
Gossip content thee, and strike him no more.

T. Tiler.
All the world wonders upon her therefore.

Sturdie.
Away neighbour Thomas out of her sight.

T. Tiler.
Alas she hath almost kild me out right.
I will rather die then see her again.

Go in T. Tiler.
Strife.
I promise you, I have a great losse then,
How like ye now this last overthwarting?
It is an old saying, praise at the parting.
I think I have made the Cullion to wring.
I was not beaten so black and blew,
But I am sure he has as many new.
My heart is well eased, and I have my wish,
This chafing hath made me as whole as a fish.
And now I dare boldly be merrie again.

Sturdie.
By saint Mary you are the happier then.
My neighbour and I, might hap to abie,
If we should so do, as he suffereth you;
But we commend you.

Strife.
I can now intend you,
To laugh and to quaff, and lay down my staff,
To dance or to sing.

Tipple.
There were no such thing, after this madness.

Sturdie.
And ye say it in sadness,
Let us set in, on a merrie pin.
The storie of the strife, between Tom and his wife,
As well as we can.

Strife.
Shall I begin then to set you both in?
For I can best do it,

Sturdie.
Now I pray thee go to it.


Here they sing.
A Song.

Here they end singing.
Strife.
Gossips, godlige for this mrerie song;
Pray God we may long keep such merrie glee.

Sturdie.
Ye marrie say we,
God grant all wives, to lead the like lives
That you do now.

Tipple.
I know not how that may come to passe,
But by the Masse, good handling doth much.

Strife.
For a fair touch my will shall not want.

Sturdie.
Would God I could plant,
My eye-lids in such sort, to make such a sport,
And live so at ease, to do what I please.

Tipple.
Alwaies the Seas
Be not like mild, but wanton and wild
Sometime more higher, then need shall require;
So may the hap be with you and with me.

Strife.
Let all this be, for we will agree,
And let us away, for I dare say,
Tom Tiler is gone to make his mone,
After these strokes, like a wise Coaks;
But all is one.

Sturdie.
Come let us be gone it is time for to go.

Tipple.
I think it be so; come on, have with you.

Here they go in, and Tom Tayler, Tom Tiler, and Destinie enter.
T. Tiler.
If Destinie drive poor Tom for to live.
For ever in strife with such an ill wife;
Then Tom may complain, no more to remain
Here on the earth, but rather wish death.
For this is too bad.

Tayler.
Why, how now my lad, what news with thee?

T. Tiler.
In faith as ye see.
After the old fashion, pleading on passion
If Fortune will it, I must fulfil it.
If Destinie say it, I cannot deny it.

Destinie.
Nor I cannot stay it.
For when thou wast born, thy luck was forlorn.
Therefore content thee, and never repent thee.

T. Tayler.
I cannot lament thee.
For I am sure you know, I charmed your shrow,
With such cruel blowes, by the faith that now goes
I thought she would die.

T. Tiler.
Then happie were I.

Tayler.
And a good cause why,
But you may now go for bacon to Dunmo.

T. Tiler.
Yet fain would I know, of Destinie now;
How long and how my life shall it passe.

Tayler.
Why foolish asse, that were but a follie.
For he is too hollie to tell any news.

Destinie.
I do not use, to tell ore I strike,
I suddenly gleek, ore men be aware.

Tayler.
Then I can declare if I look in thy hand,
How thy fortune will stand. Hold forth thy fist.

T. Tiler.
Here, do what ye list.

Tayler.
By my troth I wist it, and have not mist it.
He striketh him on the cheek.
By the sign that here goes, you are born to take blowes.
Tarrie, let me look again.

Tom Tyler.
Nay beshrew my heart then.

Tayler.
Aske Destinie hereby, and I make a lie.

Destinie.
No, you do not indeed.

T. Tyler.
Then I will change my weed,
And tyle it no more, if my chance be so sore,
As you two doe make it.

Destiny.
We do not mistake it,
Thereof be you bold, and this hope you may hold,
If your fortune bee to hang on a tree,
Five foot from the ground, ye shall never be drownd.
So if you be borne, to hold with the horne,
How soever your wife jet it, you cannot let it.
And if you leade an ill life, by chance of your wife,
Take this for verity, all is but your destiny.
And though your deedes prove naught,
Yet am I not in fault.

T. Tiler.
Then let me be taught, how to eschew,
Such dangers as you, enforce to a man.

Destiny.
Yea, but who can instruct you thereon?
For all is no more then I have said before.
But howsoever it be, learn this of me,
If you take it not ill, but with a good will,
It shall never grieve you.

Tayler.
No faith, I believe you,
That is even all. He that loves thrall,
It were pittie he should lack it.

T. Tyler.
Then I must pack it
Between the coat and the skin,
As my fortune hath been ever yet in my life,
Since I am married with Strife,
Hap good hap, will, hap good, hap evil;
Even hap as hap may.

Tayler.
That is a wise way.
Never set at thy heart, thy wives churlish part,
That she sets at her heel, such sorrows to feel.
It would grieve any Saint.

Enter Strife.
Strife.
Take a pensil, and paint your words in a table,
That the foole may be able to know what to doe.

Desteny.
Here is one comes to woo,
By the Masse I will not tary.

Desteny goeth in.
Strife.
I would it were muskadine for ye,
To stand prating with knaves,

Tayler.
Hark how she raves, she longues for a whip.

Strife.
Ye faith good man blabberlip.
You pricklouse knave you, have you nothing to do
At home with your shreds? a prayer of wise heads
I promise you you have. But you doltish knave,
Come home, or I will fetch you.

Tayler.
Now a halter stretch you.
And them that sent you.

Enter Patience.
Pacience.
Good friendes, I pray you content you.
Whence cometh this strife, I pray thee good wife?
Be pacient for all.

Strife.
And shall the knave braul
And make discord to be, betweene my husband and me.

Pacience.
Why so? are you he
That setteth debate, and disposed to prate?
I pray you be still.

Tayler.
Marry with a good will.
As God shall save me, I did behave me
As well as might bee, as these folkes did see.
Till this gigish dame, into this place came
But she is too too bad.

Patience.
And I count him mad,
That for any fit, will compare his wit,
And with a foolish woman to wander,
He is as wise as a Gander.
You are too much to blame, and you to for shame,
Leave your old canker, and let your sheet anker
Be alwayes to hold, where I pacience am bold
If things hap awry, to fall ont by and by,
It doth not agree, though Desteny be
Unfriendly to some, as he hits all that come,
In wealth and in wo, I am sure you know,
There should be no strife, betweene man and wife
And thus my tale endes, I would have you all friends
And I would have Tom tayler to be no rayler,
Nor Tom tyler to chide, which I cannot abide.
Nor his wife for to shew, any prankes of a shrew.

T. Tyler.
Ich would god it were so, for I bid the wo.
Ich wish it for my part, even with all my heart.
For howsoever it goes, I beare the blowes,
Which I tell you I like not.

Tayler.
Though I chide, I strike not,
Your Mastership doth see.

Strife.
I beshrew his knaves heart, that last stroke me.

Patience.
Well once againe let this foolishness be.
And as I told you, so I pray you hold you,
For I will not away, till I set such a stay,
To make you gree friendly, that now chafe unkindly.
Come on Strife I finde, your churlish kinde.
You must needes bridle, if it be possible,
For els it were vaine, to take any paine.
Take Tom by the fist, and let me see him kist,

Strife.
If Patience intreat me,
I will though Tom beate me,

T. Tyler.
Well wife, I thanke you.

Patience.
Nay whither away prank you?
Tom Tayler also, shall you kiss ere you go,
And see you be friends.

Strife.
I would he had kist both the endes.

Tayler.
Nay, there a hoate coale

Patience.
Now see this wilde Foale.
Be quiet I pray you, for therefore I stay you.
And Desteny to thee, thou must also agree,
As well as the rest.

Enter Desteny
Destenie.
I think it so best.
Be you agreed all?

Now speak altogether, except Patience.
All speak.
We are, and we shall.

Patience.
Then take hands, and take chance,
And I will lead the dance.
Come sing after me, and look we agree.


Here they sing this Song.
A Song.
The end of this Song.

Here they all go in, and one cometh out, and singeth this Song following all alone with instruments, and all the rest within sing between every staffe, the first two lines.

The concluding Song.
A Song.