Here lies my poor wife,
Without bed or blanket,
But dead as a door nail,
God be thanked.
Epitaph on a violent Scold.
My spouse and I full many a year
Liv’d man and wife together,
I could no longer keep her here,
She’s gone—the Lord knows whither.Of tongue she was exceeding free,
I purpose not to flatter,
Of all the wives I e’er did see,
None sure like her could chatter.Her body is disposed of well,
A comely grave doth hide her,
I’m sure her soul is not in hell,
For old Nick could ne’er abide her.Which makes me guess she’s gone aloft,
For in the last great thunder,
Methought I heard her well known voice
Rending the skies asunder.
On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep.
Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife,
Or, in one word, here lies a scolding wife;
Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut,
He durst not for his ears have touched the slut.
Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew,
If I said I regretted her—I should lie too.
On a Scold.
Here lies, thank God, a woman who
Quarrell’d and stormed her whole life through,
Tread gently o’er her mould’ring form,
Or else you’ll raise another storm.
On a Wife (by her Husband).
Here lies my poor wife, much lamented,
She’s happy, and I’m contented.