THE WOMAN TO THE PLOW AND THE MAN TO THE HEN-ROOST;
OR, A FINE WAY TO CURE A COT QUEAN.
Both men and women, listen well,
A merry jest I will you tell,
Betwixt a good man and his wife
Who fell the other day at strife.
He chid her for her huswivery,
And she found fault as well as he.
He says:—
‘Sith you and I cannot agree,
Let’s change our work’—‘Content,’ quoth she.
‘My wheel and distaff, here, take thou,
And I will drive the cart and plow.’
This was concluded ’twixt them both:
To cart and plow the good wife goeth.
The good man 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 fleets the milk, he makes the cheese;
He gropes the hens, the ducks, and geese;
He brews and bakes as well’s he can;
But not as it should be done, poor man.
As he did make his cheese one day
Two pigs their bellies broke with whey:
Nothing that he in hand did take
Did come to good. Once he did bake,
And burnt the bread as black as a stock.
Another time he went to rock
The cradle, and threw the child o’ the 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 wot,
She kick’d and spilt it ev’ry jot:
Besides, she hit him a blow on th’ face
Which was scant well in six weeks’ space.
Thus was he served, and yet to dwell
On more misfortunes that 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 the rest.
As he to churn his butter went
One morning, with a good intent,
The cot-quean 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.
’Twere strange indeed, for me to utter
That without cream he could make butter.
Now having shew’d his huswivery,
Who did all things thus untowardly,
Unto the good wife I’ll turn my rhyme,
And tell you how she spent her time.
She used to drive the cart and plow,
But do’t well she knew not how.
She made so many banks i’ th’ ground,
He’d been better have given five pound
That she had never ta’en in hand,
So sorely she did spoil the land.
As she did go to sow likewise,
She made a feast for crows and pies,
She threw away a handful at a place,
And left all bare another space.
At the harrow she could not rule the mare,
But bid one land, and left two bare:
And shortly after, well-a-day,
As she came home with a load of hay,
She overthrew it, nay, and worse,
She broke the cart and kill’d a horse.
The goodman that time had ill-luck;
He let in the sow and killed a duck,
And, being grieved at his heart,
For loss on’s duck, his horse and cart,
The many hurts on both sides done,
His eyes did with salt water run.
‘Then now,’ quoth he, ‘full well I see,
The wheel’s for her, the plow’s for me.
I thee entreat,’ quoth he, ‘good wife,
To take my charge, and all my life
I’ll never meddle with huswivery more.’
The goodwife she was well content,
And about her huswivery she went;
He to hedging and to ditching,
Reaping, mowing, lading, pitching.
And let us hope that, like the Prince and Princess in the fairy tale, they lived happily ever afterwards. But I have my doubts.