HAT hap had I to marry a shrow!
For she hath given me many a blow,
And how to please her, alack! I do not know.
From morn to even her tongue ne’er lies;
Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries;
Yet I can scarce keep her talents from mine eyes.
If I go abroad and late come in,
“Sir Knave,” saith she, “where have you been?”
And do I well or ill, she claps me on the skin.
