WIFE. Yet I advise thee, thou cullon,[361] make haste.
HUSBAND. O, how unhappy and eke unfortunate
Is the most part of married men's condition!
I would to death I had been agate,[362]
When my mother in bearing me made lamentation.
What shall I do? whither shall I turn?
Most careful man now under the sky!
In the flaming fire I had rather burn,
Than with extreme pain live so heavily.
There is no shift; to my wife I must go,
Whom that I did wed; I am full wo!
Where are ye, wife? your clothes are washed clean,
As white as a lily,[363] without spot or stain.
WIFE. Thou thief, thou caitiff, why is not this lace
Washed as fair as all the rest?
Thou shalt for this gear now smoke apace!
By Jis,[364] I swear, thou brutish beast!
[Here she must knock her Husband.
HUSBAND. Alas, alas! I am almost quite dead!
My wife so pitifully hath broken my head!
[Here her Husband must lie along on the ground,
as though he were sore beaten and wounded.
WIFE. Well, I perceive the time will away,
And into the country to go I have promised;
Look therefore thou go not from hence to-day,
Till home again I am returned.
Take heed, I say, this house thee retain,
And stir not for any thing out of my door,
Until that I come hither again,
As thou wilt be rewarded therefore.
[Here his Wife goeth out, and the Husband
tarrieth behind alone.
HUSBAND. The flying fiend[365] go with my wife,
And in her journey ill may she speed!
I pray God Almighty to shorten her life!
The earth at no time doth bear such a weed!
Although that I be a gentleman born,
And come by my ancètors of a good blood,
Yet am I like to wear a coat torn,
And hither and thither go carry wood!
But rather than I this life will abide,
To-morrow morning I do intend
Home to my father again to ride,
If some man to me his horse will lend.
She is to her gossips gone to make merry,
And there she will be for three or four days:
She cares not, though I do now miscarry,
And suffer such pain and sorrow always.
She leaveth to me neither bread nor drink,
But such, as I judge, no body would eat:
I might by the walls lie dead and stink,
For any great wholesomeness in my meat.
She walketh abroad, and taketh her pleasure:
Herself to cherish is all her care:
She passeth not what grief I endure,
Or how I can live with noughty[366] fare:
And since it is so, without further delay
To my father to-morrow I will away.
[Here he goeth out, and in cometh the Devil.[367]