The Woman to the BLOW; And the Man to the HEN-ROOST; OR, A fine way to cure a Cotquean.  
The Tune is, I have for all good Wives a Song,  

 
 

BOth Men and Women listen well  
a merry jest I will you tell,  
Betwixt a Goodman and a Wife,  
Who fell the other day at strife,  
He chid her for her Huswivery,  
And she found fault as well as he.   

With him for's work without the doors,  
Quoth he, a pox on all such whors,  
Sith you and I cannot agree,  
Let's change our work content quoth she  
My whéel and Distaff here take thou,  
And I will drive the Cart and Blow.   

This was concluded 'twixt them both,  
To Cart and Blow the goodwife goeth,  
The goodman he at home doth tarry,  
To see that nothing doth miscarry,  
An apron he before him put.  
judge, was not this a handsome Slut,   

He fléets the Milk he makes the Cheese  
He gropes the Hens, the Turks & Geese,  
He Brews & Bakes as well as he can,  
But not as it should be done, poor man,  
As he did make his Cheese one day,  
Two pigs their belys broke with whey   

Nothing that he in hand did take.  
Did come to good, once he did Bake,  
And burn, d the Bread as black as a stock  
Another time he went to rock  
The Cradle, and threw the Child o'th' floor,  
And broke his Nose, and hurt it sore.   

He went to Milk one evening tide,  
A skittish Cow on the wrong side,  
His pail was full of Milk, God wots,  
She kicked and spilt it every jot,  
Besides she hit him a blow o'th' face,  
Which was scant whole in six weeks space   

Thus was he served, and yet too well.  
And more mischances yet befell,  
Before his Apron he'd leave off,  
Though all his Neighbours did him scoff,  
Now list and mark one pretty jest,  
'Twill make you laugh above all the rest.   

As he to Churn his Butter went,  
One morning with a good intent,  
The Cotquean fool did surely dream,  
For he had quite forgot the Cream,  
He churned all day, with all his might.  
And yet he could get no Butter at night,    

The second part,  
to the same tune.  
 
 

'tTwere strange indeed for me to utter  
that without Cream he should make buter  
Now having showed his Huswivery,  
Who did all things thus oukwardly,  
Unto the Goodwife j'll turn my Rhyme.  
And tell you how she spent her time.   

She daily used to drive the Blow,  
But to do't well she knew not how,  
She made so many bank i'th' ground '  
He had been better have given five pound  
That she had never taned in hand,  
So sorely she had spoilt his Land.   

As she did sow the séed likewise,  
She made a feast for Crows and Pies,  
She threw a handful at a place,  
And left all bare another space,  
At th'Harrow she could not rule her Mare  
But hide one Land and left two bare.   

And shortly after on a day,  
As she came home with a load of Hay,  
She overthrew it, nay and worse.  
She broke the Cart, and skilled a Horse,  
The goodman the same time had ill luck,  
He let in the Sow, and she killed a Duck.   

And being grieved at his heart,  
For loss on's Duck his Horse and Cart.  
And many hurts on both sides done,  
His eyes did with salt water run,  
O now, quoth he, full well I see,  
The Whéels for her, the Blow for me.   

I thee entreat quoth he good Wife,  
To take thy charge, and all my life,  
I'll never meddle with Huswivery more,  
Nor find such faults as I did before,  
Give me the Car-whip and the Flail,  
Take thou the Chyrn and Milking-pail   

The goodwife she was well content,  
And about her Huswivery she went,  
He to Hedging and to Ditching,  
Reaping, Mowing, Lading, Pitching,  
He would be twattling still before,  
But after he ne'er twailed more.   

I wish all Wives that troubled be.  
With Hose and Doublet, Huswivery,  
To serve them as this Woman did,  
Then may they work and ne'er be chid,  
Though she i'th' interim had some loss,  
Thereby she was eased of a cross,   

Take heed of this you Husbandmen,  
Let Wives alone to grope the Hen,  
And meddle you with the Horse and Ox  
And keep your Lambs from Wolf & Fox  
So shall you live contented lives,  
And take sweet pleasure in your wives    
M.P.  
FINIS.   

London, Printed for F. Grove dwelling on Snow-hill.