Tom Tyler And His Wife (excerpt)

written by


« Reload image

  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.

© Anonymous