I am a poor tiler in simple array,And get a poor living, but eightpence a day,My wife as I get it, doth spend it away; And I cannot help it, she saith; wot we why? For wedding and hanging is destiny.
I thought when I wed her, she had been a sheep,At board to be friendly, to sleep when I sleep.She loves so unkindly, she makes me to weep; But I dare say nothing, God wot! wot ye why? For wedding and hanging is destiny.
Besides this unkindness whereof my grief grows,I think few tilers are match'd with such shrows;Before she leaves brawling, she falls to deal blows Which, early and late, doth cause me cry That wedding and hanging is destiny.
The more that I please her, the worse she doth like me;The more I forbear her, the more she doth strike me;The more that I get her, the more she doth glike me; Woe worth this ill fortune that maketh me cry That wedding and hanging is destiny.
If I had been hanged when I had been married,My torments had ended, though I had miscarried;If I had been warned, then would I have tarried; But now all too lately I feel and cry That wedding and hanging is destiny.