Could sing one-hundred-thousandth part so well.

Now had this Phœbus in his house a wife Which that he loved beyond his very life: And night and day did all his diligence To please her well, and do her reverence; Save only, to speak truly, inter nos, Jealous he was, and would have kept her close: He wished not to be treated monstrously: Neither does any man, no more than he; Only to hinder wives, it serveth nought;— A good wife, that is clean of work and thought, No man would dream of hindering such a way. And just as bootless is it, night or day, Hindering a shrew; for it will never be. I hold it for a very foppery, Labour in vain, this toil to hinder wives, Old writers always say so, in their Lives.

But to my story, as it first began. This worthy Phœbus doeth all he can To please his wife, in hope, so pleasing her, That she, for her part, would herself bestir Discreetly, so as not to lose his grace; But, Lord he knows, there’s no man shall embrace A thing so close, as to restrain what Nature Hath naturally set in any creature.

Take any bird, and put it in a cage, And do thy best and utmost to engage The bird to love it; give it meat and drink, And every dainty housewives can bethink, And keep the cage as cleanly as you may, And let it be with gilt never so gay, Yet had this bird, by twenty-thousand-fold, Rather be in a forest wild and cold, And feed on worms and suchlike wretchedness; Yea, ever will he tax his whole address To get out of the cage when that he may:— His liberty the bird desireth aye.

So, take a cat, and foster her with milk And tender meat, and make her bed of silk, Yet let her see a mouse go by the wall, The devil may take, for her, silk, milk, and all, And every dainty that is in the house; Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse. Lo, here hath Nature plainly domination, And appetite renounceth education.

A she-wolf likewise hath a villain’s kind: The worst and roughest wolf that she can find, Or least of reputation, will she wed, When the time comes to make her marriage-bed.

But misinterpret not my speech, I pray; All this of men, not women, do I say; For men it is, that come and spoil the lives Of such, as but for them, would make good wives. They leave their own wives, be they never so fair, Never so true, never so debonair, And take the lowest they may find, for change. Flesh, the fiend take it, is so given to range, It never will continue, long together, Contented with good, steady, virtuous weather.

 Prev. P 15/113 next