Poor Anthony's Complaint And Lamentation against his Miseries of MARRIAGE, meeting with a scolding WIFE.  
To the Tune of, Cold and Raw. The Journeyman Shoemaker. Or, Billy and Molly.  

O goodwife  
Out Rogue Spend thy Money   
 

WAs ever Man so vexed with a Wife  
in Suburbs or in City?  
I live a discontented life,  
alas, the more's the pity:  
I must to Bed now I am wed  
before I fill my Belly,  
Or else I have a broken head,  
'tis he hard case I tell ye.   

When I would eat she calls me sot,  
and maundering Broth doth bring me,  
So scolding, that is, scolding hot,  
the very stream doth sting me;  
Then you that live a single life  
I wish you to beware,  
For Marriage often breedeth strife,  
and always bringeth care.   

A dismal Peal to me is rung,  
while I Rock Bearn in Cradle,  
Oh! bless me from her scolding tongue,  
and from her basting Ladle.  
Oh that I were a single man  
as I was heretofore sir,  
I would not kiss young Kate or Nan,  
nor never marry more sir.   

My Wife doth lug me by the ears  
if I but ask for Bacon,  
And flouts and taunts and scolds and jeers,  
but she must have her Capon:  
She kicks me up and down the house,  
and roars as loud as Thunder,  
While I am silent as a Mouse,  
hold up my hands and wonder.   
 
 

ABout the Room she often routs  
for to find fault and quarrel,  
Although I wash the shitten Clouts  
and clean the Small Beer Barrel:  
The Tongues and Irons though I scour,  
and make her fire daily,  
Yet I have not one quiet hour  
she bums me like a Bailie.   

I drudge and toil, and am her slave,  
and clean both Pots and Flagon,  
I cannot tell what she would have  
she is so like a Dragon;  
She makes me weary of my life  
for I can get no quiet,  
The livelong day I live in strife,  
and Scolding is my Diet.   

She'll often rise from Spinning-wheel  
to make me dance the Borey,  
And make me taste so oft salt Eel,  
I grow a mere John Dorey,  
She is a Chip of the old block,  
(such Chips are but too common)  
A sour piece of Crabtree stock,  
a brawling bawling woman.   

One night she went to take the Pot,  
and all bepissed me sweetly,  
A leaky Cullander she got,  
which made the Bed feel featly:  
My Dear (quoth I) you piss beside  
upon my Face and Pillow;  
Peace Cuckold, peace, go sleep she cried,  
you are a lying fellow.   

I feel 'tis not quite to my thumb,  
it can be no such matter,  
Thus she pissed on the Bed & Room,  
and soaked me in salt water,  
She forced me to rise at night,  
or else to lie in pickle,  
For I was in a pissen plight  
by this same Madam Fickle.   

By me let others warning take  
when they intent to marry,  
Lest they (like me) repent too late,  
and quickly do miscarry.  
The married life is full of strife,  
and full of Horns I fear it;  
Then prithee do not take a Wife,  
but take a Glass of Claret.    

This may be Printed.  
R. P.   

Printed for J. Conyers at the Black Raven on Holborn Hill.