She wolde saye, lozell thou
I wyll teche the, I trowe,

Of thy language to blynne;
It is pyte that a knaue

A prety woman sholde haue,

That knoweth not golde from tynne.

I trowe thou jalouse be

Bytwene my cosyn and me,

That is called syr Sym;

Thoughe I go ofte thyder,
We do nought togyder,

But prycked balades synge.
And I so cunnynge be
The more worshyp is to the,
Gyuynge thanke to hym:
For he me fyrste taught,
So I may cunnynge caught,
Whan I wente a brosshynge.

With suche wordes douse,
Thys lytell prety mouse,

The yonge lusty prymme:
She coude byte and whyne
Whan she saw her tyme,

And with a prety gynne, Gyue her husbande an horne, To blowe with on the morne :

Beshrowe her whyte skynne!

And ofte wolde she sleke
To make smothe her cheke,

With redde roses therin;

Than wolde she mete,

With her lemman swete,

And cutte with hym ;
Talkynge for theyr pleasure,
That cocke with the fether,

Is gone an huntynge;

Hymselfe all alone

To the wode he is gone

To here the kockowe synge.

Thus with her playfere,

Maketh she mery chere,

The husbande knoweth nothynge;

She gyueth money plente,

Bycause newe loue is daynte,

Unto her swetynge.

And prayeth ofte to come,

To playe there as shyneth no sonne:

So at the nexte metynge,

She gyueth her husbande a prycke
That made hym double quycke,

So good was the gretynge.

Kocke, called of the bone,

That neuer was mayster at home,

But as an vnderlynge;

His wyfe made hym so wyse,

That he wolde tourne a peny twyse, And than he called it a ferthynge. Nothynge byleued he

But that he dyd with his eyes se,

Full trewe was his meanynge;

C

She cherysshed hym with brede and chese, That his lyfe he dyd lese:

Than made she mournynge,

And dranke deuoutly for his soule,

The handbell ofte dyd she colle,

Full great sorowe makynge.

This

sory widowe

But a whyle I trowe,

Mournynge dyd make;

Whan he was gone

A yonge lusty one,

She dyd than take; Longe wolde she not tary Lest she dyd myscary,

But full ofte spake To haste the weddynge And all for beddynge,

Some sporte to make;

Her herte to ease

And the flesshe to please,

Sorowes to aslake.

In it out joyenge

That wanton playenge,

For the olde husbandes sake;

Yet by your leue

A frere dyd she gyue,

Of her loue a flake;

And sayd in her ouen
At any maner of season,

That he sholde bake,

There is rome ynowe,

For other and for you,

And space to set a cake. The seconde husbande Nycoll, That pore sely soule,

Myght not escape,

A kockolde to dye
It was his destenye,

As man vnfortunate.

His wyfe vndeuoute

Ofte wolde go aboute,

And steppe ouer many a lake;

Makynge bost in her mode,

That her husbande can no more good

Than can an vntaught ape.

Thus by her scole

Made hym a fole,

And called hym dodypate;

So from his thryfte

She dyd hym lyfte,

And therof creste the date;

She made hym sadde,

And sayd he was badde,

Croked legged lyke a stake;

She lyked not his face,

And sayd he mouthed was

Moost lyke an hawke;

This good man ease,
Was lothe to dysplease,

But yet thought somwhat,

Thynkynge in his mynde,
That a man can fynde,

A wyfe neuer to late;
For of theyr properte,
Shrewes all they be,

And style can they prate. All women be suche

Though the man bere the breche,

They wyll be euer checkemate.

Faced lyke an aungell,

Tonged lyke a deuyll of hell,

Great causers of debate;

They loke full smothe,
And be false of loue,

Venymous as a snake.
Desyrynge to be praysed,
A lofte to be raysed,

As an hyghe estate;

And these wanton dames

Ofte chaungeth theyr names,

As An, Jane, Besse and Kate.

Thus thynketh he,

In his mynde pryuely,

And nought dare saye;

For he that is maysterfast,

Full ofte is agast,

And dare not ronne and playe.

If she be gladde,

Than is he sadde,

And fere of a sodayne fraye,