Westward for Smelts.  
OR, The Waterman's Fare of mad-merry Western wenches, whose tongues albeit like Bell-clappers, they never leave Ringing, yet their Tales are sweet, and will much content you.  
Written by Kind Kit of Kingston.   smelting scene 
LONDON, Printed for john Trundle, and are to be sold at his shop in Barbican, at the Sign of the Nobody. 1620.   

TO THE READER.  
READER, for thy pleasure have I (this once) left my Oar and Stretcher, and stretched my wit, to set down the honest mirth of my merry Fare Fishwives: if I have pleased thee, I am fully contented, and ask no more for my Fare: if not, I have lost both my labour, and the reward I hoped for from thee, and do vow never more to trouble you with any other words than, Will you have a pair of Oars? But my hopes are better, cause you (looking at my hands) for no other than Freshwater Poetry, shall not be deceived: and therefore not offended. So without any fawning tricks (which are things used too much in these times) I take my leave, wishing thee health; and if thou sit hard, my Boats Cushions. Farewell.  
Yours to command, Kind Kit of Kingston.   

WESTWARD FOR SMELTS.  
IN that selected time of the year, when no man is suffered to be a Muttonmonger, without a special privilege from those in authority: and no man is licenced to enjoy a flesh-bit, but those who are so weak, that the very sight contents their appetite: yet every man desireth flesh that is no whoremaster. When Butchers go to Beare-baytings on Thursdays, leaving their Wives and Prentices making pricks, in shops half shut up, like houses infected of the plague: when at the same time Fishmongers are in their height of pride, dashing water in their ill-sented street, like a troop of Porpoises at Flushing head. When the Cook's spits are hung up like Pikes in a Court of guard, and their dripping pans (like Targets in a country justice's Hall) be mouldy for want of use. At this time of the year the Pudding-house at Brookes-wharfe is watched by the Hollanders Eeles-ships, lest the inhabitants, contrary to the Law, should spill the blood of innocents, which would be greatly to the hindrance of these Butter-boxes. In brief, it is the Kitchen-stuff wife's vacation, which makes them run to the hedge for better maintenance. Every one knows this was Lent-time, a time profitable (only) for those that deal with liquid commodities: for none but Fish must be eaten, which never doth digest well (as some Physicians of this time hold opinion) except it swim twice after it comes forth the water: that is, first in Butter, so to be eaten: then in Wine or Beer after it is eaten: Now how chargeable this last liquor is, ask in prisons of prodigals who have paid well for it: and how profitable to the sellers, ask of those Aldermen that have had their beginning by it.  
In this time of Lent, I being in the Waterman's Garrison of Quéene-hive (whereof I am a Soldier) and having no employment, I went with an intent to encounter with that most valiant and hardy Champion of Quéene-hive, 
The Red Knight is an Alehouse Sign at Queene-hiue, where the Watermens use to tipple.  commonly called by the name of the Red Knight; one who hath overthrown many, yet never was himself dismounted, or had the least foil: yet doth he deny to grapple with none, but continually standeth ready to oppose himself against any that dare be his opposite, against whom he hath always the better: for if they yield to him in the right of his conquest, he taketh from them a certain sum of money, according to the time that they have held out: but if they scorn to yield, he not only taketh from them their goods, but likewise with his sore blows he taketh from them their senses, making them often to fall at his Castle gate for dead: voiding at the mouth abundance of filth caused by his strokes.  
I had not long held combat with this Knight, but my man came running in, telling me he had a Fare Westward. This news made me give over the combat, but with some small loss, for he would not lose his ancient privilege; so I giving him two pence, had free liberty to pass his gates, where I found my Fare, which were a company of Western Fishwives, who having made a good market, with their heads full of Wine, and their purses full of coin, were desirous to go homeward. We agreed quickly, and the Boy laid the Cushions: I put them in the Boat, and we launched into the deep, Neptune be our speed, Westward for Smelts. Having passed the troublesome places of the Thames (where the Wherries run to and fro like Weaver's shuttles) and being at Lambeth, I might perceive all my Fishwives begin to nod. I fearing they were in a sound, with my Oar sprinkled a little cool water in their faces, which made them all to awake: which I perceiving, bid them rouse themselves up, and to continue their mirth, and keep them from melancholy sleep, and I would strain the best voice I had. They prayed me so to do: but yet not to clay their ears with an old Fiddler's Song, as Riding to Rumford, or, All in a Garden Greene I said, I scorned so to do, for I would give them a new one, which neither Punk, Fidler, or Ballad-singer had ever polluted with their unsavoury breath: the subject was, I told them, of a Servingman & his Mistress. They liked the subject well, and entreated me to proceed, promising that each of them would requite my Song with a Tale. I said, I was content, and would think well of their requitals. So they being all still, I began in this manner: 

FAirer than the fairest,  
Brighter than the rarest,  
Was the comely creature which I saw.  
Her looks they were attractive,  
And her body active,  
All beholder's senses for to draw.  
I honour still this comely creature,  
And ever will do while I live:  
And for her grace and goodly feature,  
All honours due to her I'll give.   

When I first beheld her  
O had Cupid willed her,  
For to favour him that loved her best!  
joys had me possessed,  
Sorrows had not pressed,  
On my grieved heart that takes no rest.  
I think on her with adoration,  
I musing set upon her beauty,  
On her is all my meditation,  
Yet more to her were but my duty.   

She herself is witty,  
All her parts are pretty,  
Nature in her form hath showed her skill:  
Her bright beauty mazed me,  
All her parts well pleased me:  
For of pleasant sights I had my fill.  
Then began her hand for to uncover  
Her whitest neck, and roundest pap:  
Then 'gan I farther to discover  
Most pleasing sights, yet wailed my hap.   

Still I stood obscured,  
And these sights endured:  
Yet I to this goddess durst not speak.  
Had I made a trial,  
Her most sad denial,  
My observant heart oh it would break.  
Therefore will I rest contented,  
With private pleasures that I viewed,  
And never with love will be tormented,  
Yet love I her, for that she shown.    
Having thus ended, I asked them how they liked my Song? They said little to it. At last, Well, quoth a venerable Matron (or rather a Matron of Venery) that sat on a Cushion at the upper end of the Boat, let us now perform our promises to him in telling every one her Tale: & since I shall land first, I will begin first: so the Waterman shall be sure of his requital promised by us, which shall be Fishwives Tales, that are wholesome, though but homely: so sot merrily to Brainford, my masters.  
I liked this well, and cause I would hear them all out, I made but slow haste: And 'cause you shall have some knowledge what rare piece this Fishwife of Brainford was, I will describe her best and outward parts.  


This Fishwife stout,  
That led the rout,  
At Brainford dwelled.  
She sometime dealt,  
With flesh exchange:  
But now (though strange)  
She gave it over,  
And knew no Whore.  
She was well set,  
Her body met,  
Two yards was found:  
Her head from ground  
Was not so high.  
She went awry.  
Her face was great.  
She stunk of sweat.  
Let it suffice,  
She had large eyes:  
And a low brow,  
Much like a Sow  
That singed had been.  
Appeared her chin:  
For it was haired.  
Her nose was marred  
For't had a gap,  
By great mishap:  
As you shall hear,  
Then give good ear.   
The Fishwifes' Tale of Brainford.  
IN Windsor, not long ago, dwelled a Sumpter man, who had to wife a very fair (but something wanton) creature; over whom (not without cause) he was something jealous, yet had he never any proof of her inconstancy: but he feared he was, or should be a Cuckold, and therefore prevented it so much as he could by restraining her liberty: but this did but set an edge to her wanton appetite, and was a provocative to her Lust (for what women are restrained from, they most desire) for long he could not hold his watchful eye over her, 'cause his business called him away, which always lay fare from home. He being to departed from home, bethought himself what he were best to do: put another in trust with his wife he durst not: (for no greater shame is there to a man, then to be known jealous over his wife) himself could tarry no longer at home for fear of losing his place, and then his living was gone: thus was h●e troubled in mind, not knowing what to do. Now he repent himself that he had used his wife so ill, which had given her cause to hate him, and procure him a mischief: for he saw that he had no other way now to take, but to put his credit into his w●●es hands: therefore the day and night before he went from home, he used her extraordinary kindly, making more on her then the first day they were married. His wife marvelled at this sudden change, and though she liked this usage well, yet she thought never the better of him in her heart, and in her outward carriage bore herself as before: which was ever modestly in his sight. The morning being come that he was to departed from home (after many sweet kisses, and kind embraces given by him) he said: Sweet honey, I cannot blame thee, that thou takest my usage heretofore unkindly: but if thou knewest (as I mean to show thee) what my intent was, thou wilt change that bad thought for a better liking of me. Know then, my love, that I used thee thus strangely, to know how deep thy love was settled on me: (for to use a friend frowardly, tries her love, in forbearance of his injuries: and in seeking to please him) which I have found by proof immoveable. Oh my more than dear wife, thy love is fixed sure on me, and not to be removed by any cross whatsoever. Thus did he seek to unsnare himself, but was caught faster: for his wife perceiving his jealousy, vowed to be revenged, and give him good and sufficient cause to think himself a Cuckold: and with very joy to see him creep to her after this manner, she let fall a few tears, which proceeded rather of inward laughter, than any grief. He seeing this, thought they proceeded from pure love, yet did he not thoroughly trust her, but minded to return ere she was ware of him. To be short, they broke their fasts together, and lovingly parted: His wife being glad of this, sent for a woman in the town, one that was the procurer of her friend, to whom she told all that had happened between her Husband and herself: requesting her in all haste to give her friend notice that her husband was now from home, and that she would meet him, when and wheresoever he pleased. The old woman glad of this, gave her Lover to understand of this good hap, who soon met her at a place in the town, where they usually met, where they plumed the sumpter-man's Cap: there she gave the old Woman a key which would open her door, by which means she might come to the speech of her at any time of the night without knocking: so careful was she to keep herself clear and spotless in the eyes of her neighbours: who would not have thought well of her, if they had heard noise at her door in the night, and her husband from home; having passed the time away in loving compliments, they parted, each going their several ways: not any one of her neighbours mistrusting her, she bore herself so cunningly modest. Her husband being on his journey, following his Sumpter-horse, thought his wife at home working like a good huswife (when perchance she was following a Stallion she took more delight in, than he poor man did in his) yet put he no more trust in her than he was forced to do: for he dispatches his business so soon as he could, and returned three days sooner than he promised her. When he came home he knocked at the door: there might he knock long enough for his Wife, who was knocking the Vintner's pots with her Lover. He having no answer, began to curse and ban, bidding a pox on all Whores: his neighbours began to persuade him, telling him that she went but new forth, & would return suddenly again: and just at that instant came she homeward, not knowing her good man was returned, for she had appointed the old Woman to come and call her that night: Seeing her Husband, you may judge what a taking this poor Woman was in: back she durst not go for that would have but sharpened his rage: and if she went forward, she was sure of some severe punishment: yet taking courage, on she went: Her husband entertained her with half a dozen gadding Queans, and such like words, & she excused herself so well as she could But to be brief, in a doors they went: then made he the door fast, and came to her (who was almost dead with fear that her close play now would be descried) saying; Thou Whore, long time have I doubted this looseness in thy life, which I now have plain proof of by thy gadding in my absence, and do thou at this present look for no other thing at my hands, then reward fit for so vild a creature as a Whore is. At these words she would have skreeked out: but he stopped her mouth, pulling withal a rusty Dagger from his side, vowing to scour it with her blood, if she did but offer to open her mouth. She poor creature forced more with fear, then with duty, held her peace, while he bond her to a post hard by the door, vowing she should stand there all night, to cool her hot blood. Having done this, about ten of the clock he went to bed, telling her that he meant not to sleep, but watch her if she durst once open her mouth: but he was better than his word, though he held it not, for he was no sooner in bed but he foll fast asleep, being wearied with riding. Long had not he been so, but the old Woman came & opened the door with the key that the sumpter-man's wife had given her, and was going to the bed which the Sumpter-man lay upon, to call his Wife: but as she passed by, the poor woman that was bound to her good behaviour, called her by her name (yet very softly) saying, Mother jone, I am here, mother jone, pray go no further, and speak softly: for my Husband, mother jone, is a bed. This good old Woman went to her, and finding her bound, asked her the cause: to whom the afflicted Wife related (with still speech, which is contrary to women's nature) every circumstance, for she knew her Husband fast enough for three hours. Is that all, said the old Woman? then fear not but you shall enjoy your friend's bed: with that she unloosed her. The sumpter-man's wife marvelled what she meant to do, saying, Mother, what mean you? this is not the way that I must take to clear myself. Alas, should he wake and find me gone to morrow he will kill me in his rage. Content you, said the old Wife, I will bide the brunt of all: and here will I stand tied to this post till you return, which I pray let be so soon as you can. This wanton Wife praised her counsel, and embraces the same, and leaving the old Woman bound (as she desired) in her place, she went to her lusty Lover, who long time had expected her: to whom she related her husband's unlucky coming home, her ill usage, and the old Woman's kindness: for all which he was sorry, but could not mend, only he promised to reward this kind woman, called Mother jone: so leaving that talk they fell to other.  
The Sumpter-man, who could not sound sleep, because still he dreamt of Horns and Cuckolds, wakened not long after his wife was gone: and being wakened, he fell to talking after this manner: Now you quean, is it good gadding? Is your hot blood cooled yet with the cold air? Will your insatiable desires be allayed with hunger and cold? if they be not, thou arrant Whore, I will tie this thus up, not only nine days, but nineteen times nine days, till thou hast lost this hot and damnable pride of thine: I'll do it, Whore, I will, I swear I will. This good old Woman hearing him rail thus frantically, wished (with all her heart) herself out of doors, and his Wife in her old place. She durst not speak to him, for fear she should be known by her speech to be another, and not his Wife: and he lay still calling to her, ask if her hot desires were cooled. At length he hearing her make no answer, thought her to be sullen: and bid her speak to him, or else she should repent it: (yet durst not the old wife speak.) He hearing no speech, rose up, and took his knife, swearing he would mark her for a Whore, and with those words he ran to her, and cut her over the nose: all this the old Woman endured quietly, knowing her words would have but increased her punishment. To bed went he again, with such words as he used before, saying, that since her blood would not cool, he would let it out. Having lain a while, he fell asleep, leaving old jone bleeding at nose, where she stood till three of the clock in the morning: at which time this honest Lass (the sumpter-man's wife) came home: when she had quietly opened the door, she went to the old Woman, ask her how she had sped? Marry, quoth she, as I would wish my enemies to speed, ill: I pray unkind me, or I shall bleed to death. The good wife was sorry to hear that she had received such hurt, but fare gladder that it did not happen unto herself: so unbinding her, she stood in her place. Homeward went the old Woman, bethinking herself all the way how she might excuse that hurt to her Husband: At last she had one (for excuses are never further off women then their apron strings) which was this: she went home to her husband, who was a Mason, and went every morning betimes to work out of the town: him she calleth, telling him it was time to go to work; the silly man rose, and being ready to go, he miss a Chisell (which his wife had hid) and went up and down groping for it in the dark, praying his Wife to help him to look it. She made as she had sought for it, but in stead of that, she gave him a sharp knife (which a Butcher had brought to grinding) he catching at this suddenly (as one being in haste) cut all his fingers, so that with anger he threw the knife to the earth, cursing his Wife that gave it him. Presently upon the fall of the knife, she cried out that she was hurt. The Mason being amazed, went and lighted a Candle, and returning, he found his wife's nose cut. The silly man (persuading himself that he had done it with hurling the knife) entreated her for to forgive him, for he protested that he thought her no hurt when he did it: then fetched he a Surgeon who cunningly stitched it up, that it was whole in a short time. The Sumpter-man all this while did little think how he was beguiled: who when he was awaked, lighted a Candle to see what hurt he had done his Wife in his rage: he coming near her, and seeing her face whole, stood in amaze, not knowing what to think on it, for he was sure that he had cut her nose. His Wife seeing him stand in this manner, asked him what he did ail, & why he gazed so on her as though he knew her not? Pardon me, Wife, quoth he, for this night hath a miracle been wrought: I do see plainly that the heavens will not suffer the Innocent to suffer harm. Then fetched he his knife which was all bloody, saying, Dear Wife, with this knife did I give thee this present night, a wound on the face, the which most miraculously is whole: which is a sign thou art free, and spotless, and so will I ever hold thee. His Wife said little (for fear of laughing) only she said, she knew heaven would defend the Innocent: so they went to bed lovingly together, he vowing never to think amiss on her. So had she more liberty than before, & the old had gold for her wound, which wound was so well cured (I thank God) that you can scarce see it on my nose. Hereat they all laughed, saying, she had told a good Tale for herself: at which she bitten her lip, to think how she was so very a fool to betray herself. But knowing that excuses would but make her more suspected, she held her tongue, giving the next leave to speak.  
The next that sat to her was a Fishwife of Standon the Green, who said her Tale was pleasant, but scarce honest: she taxed women with too much immodesty: to salve which, she would tell the adventures of a poor Gentlewoman, that was used unkindly by her Husband. They all liked this well, and entreated her to proceed: which she willingly consented unto.   


The description of the Fishwife of Standon the Greene.  
This wife was lean,  
She went full clean.  
Her breath not strong,  
Her body long.  
She looked pale,  
Yet loved good Ale.  
Her teeth were rot,  
Her tongue was not.  
Well could she chat  
Of this and that.  
Her lips were white,  
And sharp her sight.  
Her cheeks were thin,  
So was her chin,  
And something hooked,  
Her nose was crooked:  
They would have kissed,  
But that they witted,  
Her mouth was let,  
That 'twixt was set.  
Twice thirty years,  
she'd passed with cares,  
And honest life,  
And still was Wife.  
This Wife was wise,  
But not precise:  
Thus 'gan she tell:  
Pray mark it well.   
Her Tale.  
IN the troublesome reign of King Henry the sixth, there dwelled in Waltam (not fare from London) a Gentleman, which had to Wife a creature most beautiful: so that in her time there were few found that matched her, (none at all that excelled her) so excellent were the gifts that nature had bestowed on her. In body was she not only so rare, and unparaleld, but also in her gifts of mind: so that in this creature it seemed, that Grace and Nature striven who should excel each other in their gifts toward her. The Gentleman her Husband thought himself so happy in his choice, that he believed, in choosing her, he had took hold of that blessing which heaven proffereth every man once in his life. Long did not this opinion hold for currant; for in his height of love, he began so to hate her, that he sought her death: the cause I will tell you. Having business one day to London, he took his leave very kindly of his Wife, and accompanied with one man, he road to London: being toward night, he took up his Inn, and to be brief, he went to supper amongst other Gentlemen. Amongst other talk at table, one took occasion to speak of women, and what excellent creatures they were, so long as they continued loyal to man. To whom answered one, saying: This is truth, Sir: so is the Devil good so long as he doth no harm, which is meaner: his goodness and women's loyalty will come both in one year, but it is so fare off, that none in this age shall live to see it.  
This Gentleman loving his Wife dear (and knowing her to be free from this uncivil Gentleman's general taxation of women) in her behalf, said: Sir, you are too bitter against the sex of women, and do ill (for some ones sake that hath proved false to you) to tax the generality of womenkind with lightness: and but I would not be counted uncivil amongst these Gentlemen, I would give you the reply that approved untruth deserveth, you know my meaning, Sir: construe my words as you please: excuse me, gentlemans, if I be uncivil: I answer in the behalf of one, who is as free from disloyalty, as is the Sun from darkness, or the fire from cold. Pray, Sir, said the other, since we are opposite in opinions, let us rather talk like Lawyers, that we may be quickly friends again, then like Soldiers which end their words with blows. Perhaps this woman that you answer for, is chaste, but yet against her will: for many women are honest, 'cause they have not the means, and opportunity to be dishonest (so is a Thief true in prison, 'cause he hath nothing to steal:) had I but opportunity, and knew this same Saint you so adore, I would pawn my life and whole estate, in a short while to bring you some manifest token of her disloyalty. Sir, you are young in the knowledge of women's slights, your want of experience makes you too credulous: therefore be not abused. This speech of his made the Gentleman more out of patience then before, so that with much ado he held himself from offering violence: but his anger being a little over, he said, Sir, I do verily believe, that this vain speech of yours proceedeth rather from a lose and ill mannered mind, then of any experience you have had of women's looseness: and since you think yourself so cunning in that (devilish art) of corrupting women's chastity, I will lay down here a hundred pounds, against which you shall lay fifty pounds, and before these Gentlemen I promise you, if that within a month's space you bring me any token of this Gentlewoman's disloyalty (for whose sake I have spoken in the behalf of all women) I do freely give you leave to enjoy the same: conditionally you not performing it, I may enjoy your money. If that it be a match, speak, and I will acquaint you where she dwelleth: and beside, I bow, as I am a Gentleman, not to give her notice of any such intent that is toward her. Sir, quoth the man, your proffer is fair, and I accept the same: so the money was delivered into the Oast of the house his hands, and the sitters by were witnesses: so drinking together like friends, they went every man to his chamber. The next day this man having knowledge of the place, rid thither, leaving the Gentleman at the Inn, who being assured of his wife's chastity, made no of her account but to win the wager, but it fell out otherwise: for the other vowed either by force, policy, or free will to get some jewel or other toy from her, which was enough to persuade the Gentleman that he was a Cuckold, and win the wager he had laid. This Villain (for he deserved no better style) lay at Waltam a whole day, before he came to the sight of her: at last he espied her in the fields, to whom he went and kissed her (a thing no modest woman can deny:) after his salutation, he said, Gentlewoman, I pray pardon me if I have been too hold, I was entreated by your Husband which is at London (I riding this way) to come and fee you, by me he hath sent his commends to you, with a kind entreat that you would not be discontented for his long absence, it being serious business that keeps him from your sight. The Gentlewoman very modestly bade him welcome, thanking him for his kindness, withal telling him that her Husband might command her patience so long as he pleased. Then entreated she him to walk homeward, where she gave him such entertainment as was fit for a Gentleman, and her husband's friend. In the time of his abiding at her house, he oft would have singled her in private talk, but she perceiving the same, (knowing it to be a thing not fitting a modest woman) would never come in his sight but at meals, and then were there so many at board, that it was no time for to talk of lone matters: therefore he saw he must accomplish his desire some other way: which he did in this manner: He having laid two nights at her house, and perceiving her to be free from lustful desires, the third night he feigned himself to be something ill, and so went to bed timelier than he was wont. When he was alone in his chamber, he began to think with himself that it was now time to do that which he determined; for if he tarried any longer, they might have cause to think that he came for some ill intent, and waited opportunity to execute the same therefore he resolved to do something that night, that might win him the wager, or utterly bring him in despair of the same. With this resolution he went to her chamber, which was but a pair of stairs from his, and finding the door open, her went in, placing himself under the bed: Long had he not line there, but in came the Gentlewoman with her maiden; who having been at prayers with her household, was going to bed. She preparing herself to bedward, laid her Head-tire & those jewels she wore, on a little table there by: at length he perceived her to put off a little Crucifix of gold, which daily she wore next to her heart: this jewel he thought fittest for h●● t●●ne, and therefore observed where she did lay the same: At length the Gentlewoman having untyred herself, went to bed: her Maid then bolting of the door, took the Candle, and went to bed in a withdrawing room only separated with Arras. This Villain lay still under the bed, listening if he could hear that the Gentlewoman slept: at length he might hear her draw her breath long: then thought he all sure, and like a cunning villains rose without noise, going strait to the Table, where finding of the Crucifix, he lightly went to the door, which he cunningly unbolted; all this performed he with so little noise, that neither the Mistress nor the Maid heard him. Having gotten into his Chamber, he wished for day, that he might carry this jewel to her husband as sign of his wife's disloyalty: but seeing his wishes but in vain, he laid him down to sleep: happy had she been had his bed proved his grave. In the morning so soon as the folks were stirring, he rose and went to the Horsekeeper, praying him to help him to his Horse, telling him that he had taken his leave of his Mistress the last night. Mounting his horse, away rid he to London, leaving the Gentlewoman in bed: who when she rose, attiring herself hastity ('cause one tarried to speak with her) miss not her Crucifix: so passed she the time away, as she was wont other days to do, no whit troubled in mind, though much sorrow was toward her: only she seemed a little discontented that her guest went away so unmannerly, she using him so kindly. So leaving her, I will speak of him, who the next morning was betimes at London; and coming to the Inn, he asked for the Gentleman, who then was in bed, but he quickly rose and came down to him, who seeing him returned so suddenly, he thought he came to have leave to release himself of his wager: but this chanced otherwise: for having saluted him, he said in this manner: Sir, did not I tell you that you were too young in experience of woman's subtleties, and that no woman was longer good than she had cause, or time to do ill? this you believed not, and thought it a thing so unlikely, that you have given me a hundred pounds for the knowledge of it. In brief, know, your Wife is a woman, and therefore a wanton, a changeling: to confirm that I speak, see here (showing him the Crucifix:) know you this? if this be not sufficient proof, I will fetch you more.  
At the sight of this, his blood left his face, running to comfort his faint heart, which was ready to break at the sight of this Crucifix, which he knew she always wore next her heart, and therefore he must (as he thought) go something near, which stole so private a jewel. But remembering himself, he cheers his spirits, seeing that was sufficient proof, and he had won the wager, which he commanded should be given to him. Thus was the poor Gentleman abused, who went into his Chamber, and being weary of this world (seeing where he had put only his trust, he was deceives) he was minded to fall upon his sword, and so end all his miseries at once: but his better Genius persuaded him contrary, and not so (by laying violent hand on himself) to leap into the Devil's mouth. Thus being in many minds, but resolving no one thing, at last he concluded to punish her with death, which had deceived his trust, and himself utterly to forsake his house and lands, and follow the fortunes of King Henry. To this intent he called his man, to whom he said; George, thou knowest I have ever held thee dear, making more account of thee, than thy other fellows, and thou hast often told me that thou didst owe thy life to me, which at any time thou wouldst be ready to render up to do me good. True Sir, (answered his man) I said no more thne, than I will now at any time, whensoever you please, perform. I believe thee, George (replied he:) but there is no such need: I only would have thee do a thing for me, in which is no great danger, yet the profit which thou shalt have thereby shall amount to my wealth: for the love that thou bearest to me, and for thy own good wilt thou do this? Sir (answered George) more for your love, than any reward, I will do it, (and yet money makes many men valiant) pray tell me what it is? George (said his Master) this it is, thou must go home, praying thy Mistress to meet me half the way to London: but having her by the way, in some private place kill her: I mean as I speak, kill her, I say, this is my command, which thou hast promised to perform: which if thou performest not, I vow to kill thee the next time thou comest in my sight. Now for thy reward it shall be this, Take my Ring, and when thou hast done my command: by virtue of it, do thou assume my place till my return, at which time thou shalt know what my reward is, till then govern my whole estate: and for thy Mistress absence, & my own, make what excuse thou please: so be gone. Well Sir (said George) since it is your will, though unwilling I am to do it, yet I will perform it. So went he his way toward Waltam: and his Master presently rid to the Court, where he abode with King Henry, who a little before was enlarged by the Earl of Warwick, and placed in the Throne again.  
George being come to Waltam, did his duty to his Mistress, who wondered to see him, and not her husband, for whom she demanded of George: he answered her, that he was at Enfield, and did request her to meet him there. To which she willingly agreed, and presently road with him toward Enfield. At length they being come into a by way, George began to speak to her in this manner, Mistress, I pray you tell me what that Wife deserves, who through some lewd behaviour of hers, hath made her Husband to neglect his estate, and means of life, seeking by all means to dye, that he might be free from the shame, which her wickedness hath purchased him? Why George (quoth she) hast thou met with some such creature? Be it whomsoever, might I be her judge, I think her worthy of death: How thinkest thou? Faith, Mistress (said he) I think so too, and am so fully persuaded that her offence deserveth that punishment, that I purpose to be executioner to such a one myself. Mistress, you are this woman, you have so offended my Master (you know best how yourself) that he hath left his house, vowing never to see the same till you be dead, and I am the man appointed by him to kill you; therefore those words which you mean to utter, speak them presently, for I cannot stay. Poor Gentlewoman, at the report of these unkind words (ill deserved at her hands) she looked as one dead, and uttering abundance of tears, she at last spoke these words: And can it be, that my kindness and loving obedience, hath merited no other reward at his hands then death? It cannot be. I know thou only tryest me, how patiently I would endure such an unjust command. I'll tell thee here, thus with body prostrate on the earth, and hands lift up to heaven, I would pray for his preservation, those should be my worst words: for death's fearful visage shows pleasant to that soul that is innocent. Why then prepare yourself (said George:) for by heaven I do not rest. With that she prayed him stay, saying, And is if so; then what should I desire to live, having lost his favour (and without offence) whom I see dear loved, and in whose sight my happiness did consist? come, let me die. Yet, George, let me have so much favour at thy hands, as to commend me in these few words to him: Tell him, my death I willingly embrace, for I have owed him my life (yet no otherwise but by a wife's obedience) ever since I called him Husband: but that I am guilty of the least fault toward him, I utterly deny: and do (at this hour of my death) desire that heaven would pour down vengeance upon me, if ever I offended him in thought. Entreat him that he would not speak aught that were ill on me, when I am dead, for in good troth I have deserved none. Pray heaven bless him, I am prepared now strike prithee home, and kill me and my griefs at once.  
George seeing this, could not withhold himself from shedding tears, and with pity he let fall his sword, saying: Mistress, that I have used you so roughly, pray pardon me, for I was commanded to by my Master, who hath vowed, if I let you live, to kill me: But I being persuaded, that you are innocent, I will rather undergo the danger of his wrath, then to stain my hands with the blood of your clear and spotless breast: Yet let me entreat you (so much) that you would not come in his sight (lest in his rage he turn your butcher) but live in some disguise till time have opened the cause of his mistrust, and shown you guiltless, which (I hope) will not belong.  
To this she willingly granted (being loath to die causeless) and thanked him for his kindness; so parted they both, having tears in their eyes. George want home, where he shown his Master's King for the government of the house, till his Master and Mistress return, which he said lived a while at London, 'cause the time was so troublesome, and that was a place where they were more secure than in the Country. This his fellows believed, and were obedient to his will, amongst whom he used himself so kindly, that he had all their loves. This poor Gentlewoman (Mistress of the house) in short time got man's apparel for her disguise; so wandered she up and down the country, for she could get no service, because the time was so dangerous, that no man knew whom he might trust; only she maintained herself with the price of those jewels which she had, all which she sold. At the last, being quite out of money, and having nothing left (which she could well spare) to make money of, she resolved rather to starve, than so much to debate herself to become a beggar: with this resolution she went to a solitary place beside York, where she lived the space of two days on Herbs, and such things as she could there find. In this time it chanced that King Edward (being come out of France, and lying thereabout with the small forces he had) came that way with some two or three Noble men, with an intent to discover, if any ambushes were laid to take him at an advantage. He seeing there this Gentlewoman, whom he supposed to be a Boy, asked her what she was, & what she made there in that private place? To whom she very wisely and modestly withal answered, that she was a poor Boy, whose bringing up had been better than her outward parts then showed, but at that time she was both friendless, & comfortless, by reason of the late war. He being moved, to see one so well featured (as she was) to want, entertained her for one of his Pages, to whom she shown herself so dutiful, and loving, that (in short time) she had his love above all her fellows. Still followed she the fortunes of K. Edward, hoping at last (as not long after it did fall out) to be reconciled to her husband. After the battle at Barnet (where K. Edward got the best) she going up & down amongst the slain men (to know whether her husband, which was on K. Henry's side, were dead or escaped) happened to see the other who had been her guest, lying there for dead: she remembering him, and thinking him to be one whom her husband loved, went to him, & finding him not dead, she caused one to help her with him to a house thereby: where opening of his breast, to dress his wounds, she espied her Crucifix; at sight of which her heart was joyful (hoping by this, to find him that was the original of her disgrace) for she remembering herself, found that she had lost that Crufix, ever since that morning he departed from her house so suddenly: But saying nothing of it at that time, she caused him to be carefully looked unto, and brought up to London after her, whither she want with the King, carrying the Crucifix with her. On a time when he was a little recovered, she went to him, giving him the Crucifix, which she had taken from about his neck: to whom he said, Good gentle Youth, keep the same: for now in my misery of sickness, when the sight of that picture should be most comfortable, it is to me most uncomfortable, and breedeth such horror in my conscience (when I think how wrongfully I got the same) that so long as I see it, I shall never be in rest. Now knew she that he was the man that caused the separation 'twixt her husband, and herself; yet said she nothing, using him as respectively as she had before: only she caused the man, in whose house he lay, to remember the words he had spoken concerning the Crucifix. Not long after, she being alone, attending on the King, beseeched his Grace to do her justice on a villain that had been the cause of all the misery she had suffered. He loving her (above all his other Pages) most dear, said; Edmund (for so had she named herself) thou shalt have what right thou wilt on thy enemy; cause him to be sent for, & I will be thy judge myself. She being glad of this (with the King's authority) sent for her husband, whom she heard was one of the prisoners that was taken at the battle of Barnet, she appointing the other, now recovered, to be at the Court the same time. They being both come (but not one seeing of the other) the King sent for the wounded man into the Presence: before whom the Page asked him, how he came by the Crucifix? He fearing that his Villainy would come forth, denied the words he had said before his Oast, affirming he bought it. With that she called in the Oast of the house where he lay, bidding him boldly speak what he had heard this man say, concerning the Crucifix. The Oast then told the King, that in the presence of this Page, he heard him entreat, that the Crucifix might be taken from his sight, for it did wound his conscience, to think how wrongfully he had gotten the same. These words did the Page aver: yet he utterly denied the same, affirming that he bought it, and if that he did speak such words in his sickness, they proceeded from the lightness of his brain, and were untruths.  
She seeing this Villain's impudence, sent for her Husband in, to whom she shown the Crucifix, saying, Sir, do you know, do you know this? Yes, answered he: but would God I ne'er had known the owner of it? It was my Wives, a woman virtuous, till this Devil (speaking to the other) did corrupt her purity, who brought me this Crucifix as a token of her inconstancy.  
With that, the King said, Sirrah, now are you found to be a knave: did you not even now affirm you bought it? To whom he answered (with fearful countenance) And it like your Grace, I said so, to preserve this Gentleman's honour, and his Wives, which by my telling of the truth would have been much endamaged: for indeed she being a secret friend of mine, gave me this, as a testimony of her love.  
The Gentlewoman, not being able longer to cover herself in that disguise, said, And it like your Majesty, give me leave to speak, and you shall seem make this Villain confess, how he hath abused that good Gentleman. The King having given her leave, she said, First, Sir, you confessed before your Oast, and myself, that you had wrongfully got this jewel: then before his Majesty, you affirmed you bought it: so denying your former words: Now you have denied, that which you so boldly affirmed before, and have said it was this Gentleman's wife's gift. (With his Majesty's leave) I say thou art a Villain, and this is likewise false: (with that she discovered herself to be a woman, saying) Hadst thou (Villain) ever any Strumpet's favour at my hands? Did I (for any sinful pleasure I received from thee) bestow this on thee? Speak, and if thou have any goodness left in thee, speak the truth.  
With that he being daunted at her sudden sight, fell on his knees before the King, beseeching his Grace to be merciful unto him, for he had wronged that Gentlewoman: therewith told he the King of the match between the Gentleman and himself, and how he stole the Crucifix from her, and by that means, persuaded her Husband that she was a Whore. The King wondered how he durst (knowing God to be just) commit so great Villainy: but much more admired he, to see his Page to turn a Gentlewoman; but ceasing to admire, he said: Sir, (speaking to her Husband) you did the part of an unwise man, to lay so foolish a wager, for which offence, the remembrance of your folly is punishment enough: but seeing it concerns me not, your Wife shall be your judge. With that Mistress Dorrill (thanking his Majesty) went to her Husband, saying, Sir, all my anger to you I lay down with this kiss. He wondering all this while to see this strange and unlooked for change, wept for joy, desiring her to tell him how she was preserved: wherein she satisfied him at full. The King was likewise glad that he had preserved this Gentlewoman from wilful family, and gave judgement on the other in this manner: That he should restore the money triple which he had wrongfully got from him: and so was to have a years imprisonment. So this Gentleman and his Wife went (with the King's leave) lovingly home, where they were kindly welcomed by George, to whom for recompense he gave the money which he received: so lived they ever after in great content. How like you of this woman? Some praised her (as she deserved) extraordinarily.  
But (said the Brainford Fishwife) I like her as a garment out of fashion; she shown well in that innocent time, when women had not the wit to know their own liberty: but if she lived now, she would show as vild as a pair of Yorkshire sleeves in a Goldsmith's shop.  
But we being come almost at Brainford, I asked if any of them would land there? They all cried, No: persuading the two wives that dwelled at Brainford, and Standon the Green, to go to Kingston, whither they purposed all to go and be merry. Little entreating served them: so putting their Fish-baskets aboard a Fisher-boate, they cried, On to Kingston. I being well content therewith, set forward, and the Fishwife of Richmond proceeded in telling of her Tale: but first I will tell you what manner of creature she was.   


The Fishwife of Richmond.  
This Richmond Dame  
Was void of shame,  
She was a scold  
At ten years old:  
And now was held  
The best in field,  
At that same fight  
IT was her delighs.  
Her Husband kind  
(A silly Hind)  
Durst not gainsay  
Or once say nay,  
For what she craved:  
For than she raved  
And called him fool,  
And with a stool  
Would break his head.  
Oft in the bed  
If he her tutched,  
His Beard she clutched,  
And clawed his eyes:  
Yet in no wise  
Durst he resist  
Her cruel fist.  
This Wife was young:  
Only in tongue  
She was deformed:  
Had that been charmed:  
She had deserved  
A King to ha' served.   
Her Tale.  
NOt long agone, in a town not fare from London, dwelled an old Widower, which took to Wife a fair, young and lusty Damozell, over whom his own weakness made him jealous, so that continually his eye was on her, and she could not look away, but with most spiteful words he would revile her, calling her so many Whores, that it was impossible to make him so many times Cuckold: This poor wench lived so miserable a life with him, that she rather wished to be with the dead, then to live with so froward, and such a doting old fool: but her wishes were in vain, and her misery still increased: For he complained to her friends, how that she shown not that duty to him, which other Wives did to their Husbands, but flighted him as if he had been a stranger, and that she delighted in other men's companies more than his.  
Upon this complaint of his, she had likewise the ill will of her friends, who told her they would continue her foes, till they heard she used her Husband with more respect. At this she grieved more, then at her Husband's forwardness, having their hate without a cause: and being one day at Church she made moan to her Pewfellow (which was a wench that would not be outfaced by her Husband's great looks) telling her how ill her Husband used her, for when he was within doors, his eyes were never off her, so that she could not speak to any friend: and if he went forth, he would lock her in the house like Puss-cat; and every night he locked the door himself, laying the key under his pillow. Why, said her Pewfellow, wherefore have you hands, but to take the key when he is asleep, and to go whither you will, only you must be careful to come in at the hour he useth to wake? Fie, I am ashamed, that you have no more wit: do as I tell you, and since he barreth you of your liberty in the day, take it yourself in the night: for company take no care, come to me; and if we cannot find sport to pass away the time, we will sleep for company.  
This young Lass thanked her for her counsel, vowing to put it in practice the next night what soever did happen: so returning from the Church with her husband, she went home, where all the day she sat demurely in his sight, as she was wont to do, yet could she scarce have one good word from him.  
Night being come, he locked the door as he was wont, & going to bed, he laid the key under his pillow, falling quickly asleep, which she perceiving, softly took the same, opening the door therewith: away she went to her Pewfellow, where she reveled that night, till three of the clock in the morning, at which time her Husband used to wake: then coming home, she softly opened the door, locking the same again with as little noise as she could: then laid she herself down by her good man, who when he waked, never mistrusted that his Wife had stirred from his side: This did she many times, and never was so much as suspected for such a matter.  
One night above the rest (her good fortune having made her bold) she tarrying a little longer than her hour, her Husband chanced to awake; who presently missing her, called her by her name, thinking she had been in the house: he hearing no answer, rose and went about the house to look her, but he could not set his eyes on her, and to ask for her was in vain, for his Cat could not speak, and he had no other to inquire of: for his Cat, his Wife, and himself, was all the household he had.  
To bed went this old man again, where he looked for the key, but could find none: there he lay, vexing and chafing himself, ever and anon feeling on his brows, which he persuaded himself were in their Springtime, and would shortly bring forth fruit: though the rest of his body were in Autumn. At length he might hear a noise, and lying still, he might perceive his Wife come stealing to the bed, to whom he said nothing, hoping one night to take her out of the doors, where he would keep her to her everlasting shame, and give the Parish notice of her night-walking: so taking no notice that he knew any thing, he used her that day very kindly, which made her to believe that the Proverb is true (Cuckolds are kind men) for before she played lose with him, she never had that good usage at his hand, as she had that day found.  
This encouraged her to go on in these her mad pranks, so that the same night she purposed to walk again, which she did, taking the key from under his pillow (as she was wont to do) she unlocked the door, and away she went to her Pewfellow: he perceiving it (for he slept For sleep) went down, and bolted the door after her, so that she could not come in, but he must know of it: when he had so done, he laid him down to sleep.  
His Wife ending her Revels, at her usual hour, returned home, and very quietly assayed to open the door: but perceiving that it was bol●ed on the inside, her heart was dead (as a spent prodigals, at the sight of a Sergeant:) then repent she that she had taken that wanton course, knowing a severe punishment would follow her sweet pleasure: Thus she, poor soul, stood at the door shaking with fear, more than cold: but at last (having no other way to get in) she resolved to knock: so laying her hand gently on the ring of the door, she knocked twice or thrice before he would hear her. At last, he looked out of the window, ask who knocked at the door? 'tis I, kind Husband, (answered she) that have been at a woman's labour; prithee sweet heart open the door. All these kind words would not get her admittance, but gained this churlish answer at his hands: Hast thou been at a woman's labour? Then prithee sweet heart return, and amongst the residue of the wives, help thou to devour the groaning Cheess, and suck up the honest man's Ale till you are drunk, by that time 'twill be daylight, and I will have thy friends at thy return, who shall give thee thankes for thy charity.  
The poor woman knew his wicked mind toward her; by these his mocking words, yet sought she to pacify the same; saying, Alas, kind Love, these things are done already; therefore pray open the door? No (quoth he) avaunt Whore; damned Whore, avaunt. Hear is no place, your labours have not deserved such fruits at my hands: No, I have taken you, you are entrapped, you are snared, your friends shall now know, and all the world see, that you are a most cunning Whore: therefore rest quiet, for there you shall stand till morning.  
This sharp answer of his killed her heart; but she quickly revived the same with a trick which she hoped would get her admittance, which she put in execution after this manner: Am I rewarded thus (quoth she) for my charity toward a poor distressed woman? and is this thy thankes thou givest me for all my care which I have had of thy old and crazed carcase? I see it is, therefore will I live no longer, but presently will make away myself, and with myself thee, for the world judging thee to be author of my death, will give thee the punishment that is due unto a murderer.  
At this the old man laughed, bidding her proceed. Which she hearing, took up a great stone, going therewith to a Pond which was within a yards length of her house, and standing at the brink, said these words: Oh blessed element of water, it is thou which wast ordained to end my misery, and to revenge me on my wicked husband: therewith hurled she in the stone which made a great noise: then placed she herself hard by the door. Her husband thinking she had leapt in, and considering what danger he might come in if she was drowned, ran hastily out of door to help her: which his Wife seeing, stepped in, bolting of him forth.  
The old man stood a long time looking with his Spectacles on the Pond: but perceiving nothing to stir, he thought her to be drowned, and with that cried out he was undone. Long enough might he cry, for no neighbours dwelled near him: at length his Wife pitied him, saying, Alas, good man, what wouldst thou have? He hearing it to be his wife's voice, was glad thereof: yet continuing his churlish speeches unto her, he bid her open the door, calling her dissembling Quean.  
To all this said she nothing: but at last she took occasion to empty the Pisspot on his head, and then said, There is some Cuckold's Urine to cool your tongues heat; I'll warrant thee it is right, 'tis of my Husbands making: so prithee, fellow, be gone and let me sleep.  
This abuse of hers, made the old man to rail more than before: but at last, seeing he could get nothing thereby, thee gave her good words, entreating her to let him in, and he would forgive all that was past, never letting her friends understand of her night-walking.  
She seeing him so meek, said, Old man, I could well afford thee shelter in my house, though thou hast not deserved the same: but in so doing I shall break my oath, for I have sworn that thou shalt not come through the door not this five hours: now to save my oath, and do thee pleasure (in taking thee out of the cold) I will open the window in the lower room, that thou mayst come in that way. Her husband being glad any way to get out of the cold, thanked her for that kindness.  
Down came she strait and opened that window: the old man glad thereof, thrust in his head, praying her to help him. She now thinking it time to be revenged on him, took hold of his Beard, and with her other fist battered his face, and scratched him in such piteous manner, that the old man thought she would have killed him: and therefore pulling his head out of the window, he all be battered the Casements with stones, calling her a hundred Whores.  
At this she laughed, and bid him be a patiented Cuckold, for his greatest misery was to come; so going to a back window, she espied a Boy, whom she called, willing him to go to such a ones house (naming her Pewfellow) and entreat her strait to come and speak with her. The Boy doing her errand, her Pewfellow came: to whom she told (not without great laughing) the whole story of her good hap; willing her to go to her Mother, and the rest of her friends, and (as she could well enough without her instructions) frame a complaint, how that her Husband of a long time had used to go on whore hunting in the night: yet she having no just proof of the same, was loath to speak: but now it was her hap to take him forth of the doors, where she would keep him, till they came to take some order that she might be separated from him, for she feared her life.  
With this Tale ran her Pewfellow to her friends (which dwelled not fare off) to whom she told such a piteous story) of the miserable life their poor kinswoman led, with that known and proved old adulterer; that her friends moved with the wrong she sustained, got the Parson of the town to go with them to their Kinswomans' house, that he might be a witness of her wrong.  
When they came thither, they found the old man sitting at the door, with a face more deformed (with beating and scratching) then ever was any Witches. The Mother to this lusty Lass, seeing him sit there with such a deformed face, raised her voice to a high key, saying: Ah, thou old Knave, thou Whore monger, thou decrepit Lecher, Hast thou always complained of my Daughter, making me, and other that are her good friends (not only to reprove her, but more which I speak to my grief) to hate her, for her neglect of duty toward thee, when the fault was in thyself, when thou gavest her right to others? but see, now it is come home by thee, she hath entrapped thee in thy snare; then art come home with thy face mangled like a true Ruffian: now thou art the true Picture of a brothell-house companion: thou hast the Seals on thy face, which those creatures (called Whores) do give: thou hast, villain, thou hast.  
He wondering to see her Mother so against him, of whom he hoped to be righted, said: Mother, I confess, these seals are the seals of a Whore; but of what Whore? Even of what whore thou wilt (quoth she:) thou knave, hold thy tongue, confess not here, keep that for the gallows. Bear witness, good Sir john, and the rest of my neighbours, that see how my daughter is abused: for I purpose to teach this knave how to use his wife better; and not to abuse her, and then threaten her with death, if she complain: come down my child and speak for thyself, and let the knave touch thee if he dare.  
The young Wife liked this well, who came down as her Mother bid her; & falling at her feet, entreated her (with feigned tears) that she might be divorced from her wicked husband, or else she said her days were but short, for he assuredly would do her a mischief.  
Content thee, Daughter (said her Mother) I will have him consent to let thee go, giving thee that portion he had with thee; or else I will sell Cow, Coat, house and all, to go to Law with the Knave. The old man (her Husband) perceiving) that they were all on her side, and how that they would not hear him speak in his own defence: likewise thinking if that he lived with his Wife again, he must be a contented Cuckold, said, Will you hear this? Take your Daughter with you: and I will presently give her that portion I received, and take all this wrong.  
This pleased them all; so the Priest drew a Bill of divorce between them, and the old man delivered back her portion, being glad that he was rid of his Wife. His wife on the other side was glad that she had escaped that punishment which she deserved: so they all part●● seeming friends.  
I ●●rry (quoth the Fishwife of Brainford) this was a wench worth talking of; she deserveth as much praise as those women called Amazons, who out of a brave mind cut their husband's thr●ates: and so made themselves, rulers of themselves.  
But what praise (quoth the wife of Stand on the Green) had she deserved, if she had been discovered, or failed in this attempt? Nothing but curses in my mind, for she had given cause to all men to speak ill of us women: it is not the event, but the honesty of the intent, that justifies the action. I think so too, said a Fishwife of Twitnam, I do not like this foolish hardiness: and men are apt to speak ill of us without cause: therefore to make amends, I will tell of a virtuous and chaste Dame, one whose life may be a mirror for all women.   


The description of the Fishwife of Twitnam.  
Not old, not young,  
Not sharp of tongue  
Was this same Wife.  
She loved no strife,  
Nor much would prate,  
But loved her mate.  
Yet loved she lap:  
If't were her hap  
To meet with those,  
She knew from foes,  
She'd spend her quart  
With all her heart.  
Well loved she Mass.  
Her time she'd pass  
In working good:  
If neighbours stood  
In need of aught  
She sold or bought,  
They should it have,  
If they did crave.  
This Wife mannerly  
Spoke thus soberly.   
Her Tale.  
SOmetime in Britain there reigned a mighty Prince, called Oswald, who for his just government and holy life, had the name of Saint given him. This Oswald took to his wife a virtuous Maiden, named Beblam, daughter to Kynygils' King of Westsaxons: by whom he had one son, after whose birth they willingly agreed (that they might the better serve their Saviour) not to touch one the other after any carnal manner.  
Thus lived this virtuous couple until their deaths, only esteeming the service of God, and the avoiding of worldly tentations for their chief pleasure. A Hermit being envious at the report of his holy life, one day went to him, ask the King how he could live so holy, and yet live with a Wife? To whom the King answered: Marriage is no hindrance to holy life, for therein do we but follow the institution of God, which he ordained for the increase of the world: but further to satisfy thee, that it is no hindrance to my holy life; take thou this King, and go to her, bidding her use thee as she would use myself.  
The Hermit glad of this (hoping to have kind entertainment at his Queen's hands) went merrily to her, delivering her the King: and told her, that it was her Husband's will that she should use him in all respects as she would use himself, if he were there.  
To this the Queen was willing, and bid him welcome, telling him he should be served in all points as the King her Royal husband was. When the time of supper was come, and the Hermit expected some delicate cheer, he only was fed with bread, which was served up in a stately manner, by diverse Gentlemen that did attend him: likewise when he called for drink, they gave him wholesome water to cool his hot desires: no other cates got he, yet was it no worse than the Queen herself ate of.  
This stately service, and homely fare, scarce pleased the Hermit, yet still he hoped for better, but his hopes were vain, for the cloth was taken up, and one asked him if he pleased to go to bed? To this he was willing, hoping now to sleep out the remembrance of his hard fare: but being come to his Chamber, a sudden joy extinguished the grief he would have slept out; for he saw no worse woman than the Queen should be his bedfellow. So quickly undressing himself he went in bed to her (not forget-getting in his thoughts to praise her for obeying her Husband's will) where having line a while, thinking of some strange things, lust and the evil disposition of his mind began to infect his soul so, that with as kind embrace he besought the Queen to show some mercy towards his hot affection.  
This virtuous Queen seeing this Hermit basely lascivious, rung a Bell: then presently came in four women, who took this Hermit and cast him in a Cistern full of water, that stood in the Chamber: he being well cooled, they took him forth, placing him in the bed as they found him. There he lay shivering with cold a good space; but at length his blood being heated, he fell to thinking with himself: how perchance the Queen shown herself thus chaste, to take suspicion from her women, and that she might all the night after play the wanton securely: His burning Lust, seconding this Opinion, made him once more ●enter a ducking: so turning himself to the Queen, he began with this speech:  
Most rare, beauteous, admirable, and unparalelled woman, I will not only commend thee for thy beauty, and greatness of Birth and place; but also I will adore thee with more than humane worship, for the extraordinary understanding which thou hast above others of thy sex. With what a grave and sober carriage dost thou hide thy hot affections, which inwardly do burn thee? Oh it is strange! therewith not only blinding the eyes of strangers, but also thy nearest attendants: now I conceive why thou commandest me to be hurled in the water Cistern, it was thy policy (thou wonder of thy sex) to avoid suspicion in thy servants.  
I knew this well, and therefore did willingly endure the same, that I might the more freely enjoy thy beauty now: therewith began he lo clip her in his arms; which she perceiving, rung the Bell: her women presently coming in, took this Youngster, ducking him twice so much as they did before, so that they laid him in the bed half drowned: and having done, presently voided they the Chamber.  
The Hermit being come to himself, had a better opinion of K. Oswald & his Wife, for he then held them for the holiest people in England: and his hot blood being cooled, he lay still that night, not daring to stir, lest she giving the alarm, his enemies would come upon him and put their cruelty in execution.  
The morning being come, he kindly took his leave of the Queen, telling her he had sufficiently tried the King's severe and holy life, and would ever after give testimony of the same: so went he to his Cell, being ashamed of this his foolish attempt, and never after would look into other men's lives, but mended his own.  
She having ended her Tale, they all said, This Queen was a virtuous woman, and worthy to be had in memory, but she was not to be any precedent for them, seeing she was a Queen, and they were but Fishwives.  
Truly (quoth a Fishwife of Kingston that fate next to her) if we would be thus chaste, alas, our husbands would not suffer us to continue to; therefore, for my part, I will never go about it: I will tell you a Tale of one that was a great woman (though she was no Queen) and yet kept a friend besides her husband.   


The description of the Fishwife of Kingston.  
This Kingston wife,  
Loved little strife.  
She was a boss,  
That loved to toss  
The Ale pot round.  
Few was there found  
Can with her drink,  
But they would wink,  
And fall asleep:  
Till she would creep,  
She'd not give over,  
But call for more.  
Loving the pot,  
All lost she not:  
For she had got  
A nose full hot,  
And red as blood.  
Within it stood,  
diamonds shining.  
Lower declining,  
Stood a Ruby.  
If I true be,  
There were more  
Then half a score,  
Which shown like  
The sparks you strike,  
From forth a flint:  
Such heat was in't.  
Men might suppose,  
(Seeing her nose)  
What broth she loved.  
When she had moved  
Herself, and spit,  
She spoke this writ.   
Her Tale.  
A Certain great Lady, having to her husband a man old and unfit to satisfy her youthful desires, asked her Confessor whether she might not enjoy (her desire being hot, and her husband unable) a friend which might supply her want, caused by her husband's weakness? The Friar (hoping she would make choice of him) told her she might, for the sin was but little, and did deserve little or no penance. She thanked him for this kind absolution, telling him she only took this careful course, that her husband might not die without issue, having his memory buried with him in the dust.  
The Priest (still hoping he was the man she would select) said, her care was good, and no whit offensive, if she chose a friend that would keep it from the world. She said, her diligence would choose such a one, and so they parted: the Priest being still in the mind that he should be the man.  
But this Lady meant otherwise: for she chose a Gentleman that sometime had been a suitor unto her, who loving her dear, and she him, they enjoyed each others company without suspect of any, only two of her trusty servants knowing of it.  
The Priest perceiving he was not the man appointed for this business, vexed himself in thinking what a fool he was, that he did not make proffer of his service, when she first opened her mind unto him. Thus thinking of her beauty, and his neglect, he vowed to perform something which might give him content; with this resolve went he to a pleasant walk thereby, where oftentimes the Lady used; there having obscured himself, he might perceive her with her Lover coming that way. He lying close, and listening to hear something that might be for his advantage: amongst other things he heard her ask, why he had chosen Hercules for his watchword, seeing there were many words, and names, which were more proper to that business? The Priest stayed not to hear his answer, (thinking he had enough in knowing of that word which had the power to bring him to her bed) but closely got him home, waiting the coming of night, which he prayed might hasten on, that he might enjoy the pleasure he so wished for.  
To be short, her friend and she parted when they saw time, and night being come, she went to bed, where she lay alone: (for her old husband was at Court:) long had she not lain there: but the Priest (being well acquainted with all the turnings in the house) came to her Chamber door and knocked: She asked who was there? Hercules, quoth the Priest. With that she rose, and (thinking it to be her Swéetheart) let him in. The Priest caught her in his arms, kissing and using other dalliance, so long, till he had fully satisfied his hot desires: Then quietly took he his leave without words, which she wondered at.  
Long had he not been gone, when came her Sweetheart, who softly knocked at the Chamber door: she hearing it, asked who was there? Hercules, said he. She wondering at his sudden return, opened the door, and asked him why he came? To enjoy thy sweet company (said he) and to pass away this night in such sports as shall content us both.  
She wondering to see him, and he not knowing what she meant, (and thinking she misdoubted his loyalty) prayed her to tell him the meaning of those words, which seemed more strange to him, than rattling Welsh, or wild Irish: and he protested likewise, that but even then he came from his Chamber.  
The Lady now knew that she was deceived, and that some crafty knave had got at her hands a more than ordinary kindness: and 'cause he should suspect nothing, she told him that she dreamt she had enjoyed his company that night, and that he parted from her after an unkind manner.  
Tut, said he, dreams are but false shadows: now hast thou the substance those shadows did present. With such loving words passed they the night: and morning being come, her friend kindly took his leave, secretly going to his Chamber.  
She being vexed in her mind that she was deceived, and not knowing by whom, passed away that day, hoping ere long to entrap her cunning Lover.  
Night being come, after her usual manner she went to bed, where she had not long been, but the Priest (his appetite being rather sharpened, than any way slacked) came to the door, softly knocking. She hoping it was he she looked for, went to the door, demanding who was there? Hercules, said the Priest: she knowing it to be him (by his voice) that had deceived her, prayed Hercules to come in and act a new labour: and under colour of using him kindly, she felt by the short hair on his head, that it was the Priest.  
Being glad she had found her too officious friend, she entreated him to repose himself on the bed, till she cleared the house of some servants that she heard up in the next room: to which the Priest was very willing, being loath to be descried at his going forth by any of the household servants.  
But she had another meaning: for she called by her two servants, servants which she trusted with her chief secrets, bidding them go into her Chamber, where they should find the Priest, whom they should bind, and with a sharp knife (which she gave to them) cut out one of his genitors. They obeying her command, rushed into the Chamber, where they found the Priest (fearing the noise be heard) crept under the bed, whom they drew out by the heels, and bound his hands, and feet. The Priest seeing them handle him thus roughly, entreated them to forbear, saying, he was a Churchman, and it was sacrilege to offer him violence. He seeing this prevailed him nothing, set out his throat: but they soon stopped the same, and with a sharp knife, and a quick hand, made him lighter by a stone.  
Then called they their Lady, who seemed to pity Sir john, and bid them bind up his wound, putting thereto salve which she gave them. They having done this, she hung a paper about his neck, bidding them unbind him, and turn him forth the doors: which they performed, and shutting the door after him, they went to bed laughing. The poor Priest hied him home, getting to bed, where he took little rest for the pain he felt; but he passed away the night in cursing the Lady, on whom he could not tell how to be revenged. The morning being come, he espied the writing which hung about his neck; he opening the same, found therein this written: 
Priest, if that thou chance to tell,  
What pleasure through thy wit befell:  
Likewise report not without care,  
What thou hast lost, and what they are:  
But never grieve there's none that can,  
But must confess thou'rt half a man.  
But leave thy riding, lest that stone  
Be carved too, then hast thou none.  
So Sir, farewell: thoust made amends,  
For thy deceit: and we are friends.   
At this the Friar bitten his lip, wishing he had as much power over her life, as he had over that paper: but not knowing how to mend himself, but by looking to his wound, he rested himself content, and ventured to steal no more flesh: and the Lady enjoyed her friend quietly, being never after troubled with the Friar.  
Now tell me (quoth this Fishwife) if this Lady be not as much praiseworthy for her wit, as the other was for her honesty? Most of them confirmed her argument to be sound, & the rest confirmed it by their silence. Then the last Fishwife which was of Hampton, said, but for a woman out of the abundance of her wit, to abuse any man, or herself, in such dishonest courses, I think it not good: 'cause oftentimes the harm which she intendeth, and the shame which she deserveth, lighteth on herself: which I will make good by this example.   


The description of the Fishwife of Hampton.  
This same creature  
Had a feature,  
Would have moved  
A man to loved.  
A body sound.  
A face full round.  
A forehead hie.  
A full black eye.  
A soft bright hair.  
A skin full fair.  
A colour ruddy:  
And not muddy.  
A chin dimpled.  
Nose not pimpled.  
She had a lip,  
Would make one skip,  
To have a bit:  
So sweet was it.  
she'd not lower.  
And look sour.  
Nor in feasting,  
Be protesting  
She was no such:  
But she'd bide touch.  
Beauty's rich store.  
And eke much more  
Of honest goodness:  
And hated lewdness.   
Her Tale.  
IN Devonshire (sometime) there dwelled a maiden, to whom nature (having been something liberal) gave such beauty, that she in all men's judgements was held the comeliest and fairest creature in all those parts: she being a right woman, took notice of her good parts, & withal grew so proud, that she rewarded all those which honestly sought to enjoy her love, either with scoffs or unkind denials.  
A young Gentleman of that country, long time loved this same unkind and unmatched creature, but never could he receive better comfort at her hands, then unkind answers, or scornful looks. One day (not willing to live longer between hope and fear) he resolved to have of her either a flat denial, or firm grant; and with this resolution went to her, to whom he spoke after this manner:  
Fair Millisant, long time (amongst other of your suitors) have I dear loved you, yet never did I receive the least token of acceptance at your hands: disdain you my Birth? I am a Gentleman, though not descended of the highest houses, yet not of the meanest. Mislike you my wealth? I have enough to maintain a private Gentleman. Mislike you my parts of body? They are as nature gave them, I could wish they were more pleasing to your mind. Do you misdoubt my love to you? Set me some task in man's possibility to perform, and it shall confirm the same. Tell me for what it is you cannot love me, and I will reform the same, and by fashioning myself to your liking, give you testimony of my love.  
No whit was she moved with his pure love, but after her usual manner determined to abuse the same; and to that purpose she answered him thus:  
Sir, such little liberty hath our sex, and men such corrupt judgements, that our mirth is counted immodesty, our civilest looks lascivious, our words lose, our attires wanton, and all our doings apish: to shun these slanders, it behooveth us to been careful over ourselves, and not through our kindnesses to give inconstant and dissembling men occasion to speak ill. I tax not you with this common fault; yet have I bade no proof that your love is any other then dissembling; therefore till I have made proof of the same, by your obedience in executing my will, look not for any kind favour at my hands.  
These words gave him some hope: and he being willing to express his love to her, desired her to acquaint him with that task whose performance would give him that great happiness of her love: and he vowed to do it, excepting no danger.  
She seeing him thus blind with her love, that for her sake he would undergo any danger, with a cruel and unmerciful heart uttered these words: Sir, I shall try you whether your love is of that pureness you praise it for; I charge you, as ever you did respect me, or hope to enjoy me, for this two years coming to keep a voluntary silence, not speaking to any creature living, or to sing, or use any kind of sound, whereby your meaning may be understood: this is my pleasure, which if you perform not, never see me: if you will do it, let your silence and sudden departure be sign of consent.  
The Gentleman hearing this unkind task, was almost struck dead with grief, yet said he nothing, but observing her command, presently departed with silence.  
Being thus silenced by that unmerciful Maid, he left his friends, and went into Cornwall, where he was entertained by the Duke (he being an excellent Musician) to teach his children to dance and play on sundry Instruments wherein he had skill: In his service he bore himself so worthily, and used such diligence 〈…〉 the child on that the Duke delighted in his com-paring 〈…〉 other Gentlemen and sought all the means 〈…〉 his speech? 〈◊〉 seeing all 〈◊〉 cost was in vain, and that the 〈◊〉 did him no good, he caused it to be published that whosoever could restore his speech, ●●ue 〈◊〉 pounds should be their reward: ●ut they not performing 〈◊〉 〈…〉 should give the Duke so much 〈◊〉 or else have imprisonment till they paid it. This large, but ●ea●efull pro●●se, was 〈…〉 that ●o think that she could with one word do that which so great a Duke could not undo, with all his exp●●●● and care She knowing it was in her power to restore his speech and being covetous of the great reward, she went into Cornwall, proffering herself before the Duke to perform the cure, or undergo the punishment.  
The Duke being glad that he had one that would undertake the cure, bid her to take her time for the performance of it; She set down three weeks, and that she not performing it in that time, was liable to his sharpest punishments: so with a g●●● courage did she begin her cure.  
The Gentleman seeing his hardhearted Love come to be his Physician, would neither by sign, or any word make known, that he had any remembrance what she was but seemed to her as to a strong 〈◊〉 though she gave him many kind words, ex●●●ing her 〈◊〉 folly in that she knew him not to be of that worth and estimation, which she now saw he was of. All this would get never a word from him; which she sheeing, entreated to break that rash and foolish ●ow she had caused him to make, 〈◊〉 she would give him sufficient 〈◊〉 of her love; thus continued she the spa●e of twelve days, but could never get any cheerful look at his hand: she now fearing he would be revenged on her, and by his wilful silence suffer her either to pay the money, or else to lie in prison with a kind and loving countenance said these words to him:  
Sir if ever you loved me (as you vowed you did) let not my 〈…〉 be any longer cause of your neglecting me, 〈…〉 are sufficient testimony of the grief I have for it, and 〈…〉 offer up my love to you as satisfation for my former fault: Oh then be merciful, and loving me, 〈…〉 sense, and through my loving duty, let me 〈…〉 good opinion of me: with these 〈…〉 〈◊〉 ●oying to cause him 〈◊〉.  
All this predaa●●ed her nothing, for he 〈…〉 A● her one word: yet with a seeming unwillingness did he accept her embraces, when he 〈…〉 enjoyed, 〈…〉.  
But to be 〈…〉 come, and she could not for 〈…〉 and the Duke seeing her folly (he undertaking his 〈◊〉, and not performing it) caused her to be 〈◊〉, 〈…〉 (not being able to pay the money 〈…〉 she had cured him) till she 〈…〉. That time being come, he went to the Duke, 〈◊〉 him to pardon his long wilful silence, paused by 〈…〉, withal felling 〈…〉 and how he had 〈…〉.  
The Duke was exceeding 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 him speak, 〈◊〉 praised his wit for using so ungentle a person so untowardly: yet blamed him withal, for keeping so 〈…〉, and unreasonable a vow so straightly: 〈◊〉 both having had 〈◊〉 enough for their folly, he 〈…〉 them both, continuing his love to the Gentleman, and rel●●●ng her, who by that 〈◊〉 has got a great belly with her awise physic, but he that owed the ●rait, would not acknowledge it: so that she was to looke● new customer, or else endure the open shame belonging to a S●●mpe●: which of them she did, I know not, either of them was bad enough: and had that Gentlewoman had no better fortune in abusing the Friar, than this by exercising her with on this Gentleman, she had deserved no more than this foolish woman doth.  
It is true (said the Brainford Fishwife:) and since it conernes us not, let us leave this pro and contra, let every tub stand on it own bottom: and so our mirth and ●ourney ends about one time: for yonder is Kingston, whose large and conscionable pots are praised throughout England; whose Ale is of great strength and force, as our Western Waterman's sick brains can witness. Then since it is so near, let us not be factious, and contend for trifles; but let us seek to enjoy that which we came for, mirth; that best preserver of our lives: so land us with all speed, honest Waterman.  
They hearing her speak but reason, agreed to be ruled by her, and therefore gave her the name of Captain. With all haste (and ease) as I could possible, landed I my merry Fare of Fishwives, who went strait to the sign of the Bear, where they found such good liquor, that they stayed by it all night: where I left them, and so ended my journey, Westward for Smelts.   
FINIS.