The Disguising at Heord | Page 4

a disguysing : of the Rude upplandisshe people
compleyning on hir wyves with the boystous aunswere of hir wyves
devysed by lydegate at the Request of the Countre Roullour Brys :
slayne at Loviers
Most noble prynce : With support of your grace,
Ther beon entred : in
to youre royal place
And late coomen in to youre castell,
Youre
poure lieges, wheche lyke no thing weel.
Nowe in the vigyle of this
nuwe yeere
Certayne sweynes, ful [froward of ther chere],
Of
entent comen, [fallen on ther kne],
For to compleyne vn to yuoure
magestee
Vpon the mescheef of gret aduersytee,
Vpon the trouble
and the cruweltee [10]
Which that they haue endured in theyre lyves

By the felnesse of theyre fierce wyves,
Which is a tourment verray
importable,
A bonde of sorowe, a knott vnremuwable.
For whoo is
bounde or locked in maryage,
Yif he beo olde, he falleth in dotage,

And yong folkes, of theyre lymes sklendre,
Grene and lusty, and of
brawne but tendre,
Phylosophres callen in suche aage
A Chylde to
wyve, a woodnesse or a raage. [20]
For they afferme ther is noon eorthly stryff
May beo compared to
wedding of a wyff,
And who that euer stondethe in the cas
He with
his Rebecke may sing ful oft ellas,
Lyke as theos hynes, here
stonding oon by oon,
He may with hem vpon the daunce goon.

Leorne the traas, boothe at even and morowe
Of Karycantowe in

tourment and in sorowe....
Weyle the while ellas that he was borne.

For Obbe, the Reeve, that goothe heere al to forne, [30] He pleynethe
sore, his mariage is not meete,
For his wyff, Beautryce Bittersweete,

Cast vpon him an hougly cheer ful rowghe
Whane he komethe
home, ful wery frome the ploughe,
With hungry stomake, deed and
paale of cheere,
In hope to fynde redy his dynier.
Thanne sittethe Beautryce, bolling at the nale,
As she that gyvethe of
him no maner tale.
For she alday with hir iowsy nolle,
Hathe for the
collyk pouped in the bolle [40]
And for heed aache : with pepir and
gynger
Dronk dolled ale, to make hir throte cleer,
And komethe hir
hoome, whane hit drawethe to eve.
And thanne Robyn, the cely poure
Reeve,
Fynde noone amendes of harome ne damage
But leene
growell, and soupethe cold potage,
And of his wyf hathe noone other
cheer
But cokkrowortes vn to his souper.
This is his servyce sitting
at the borde,
And cely Robyn, yif he speke a worde, [50]
Beautryce
of him doothe so lytel rekke
That with hir distaff she hittethe him in
the nekke,
For a medecyne to chawf with his bloode.
With suche a
metyerde she hathe shape him an hoode.
And Colyn Cobeller, folowing his felawe,
Hathe hade his part of the
same lawe,
For by the fayth that the preost him gaf
His wyff hathe
taught him to pleyne at the staff.
Hir quarter strooke were so large
and rounde
That on his rigge the towche was alwey founde. [60]
Cecely Sourechere, his owen precyous spouse,
Kowde him reheete
whan he came to house.
Yif he ought spake whanne he felt peyne,

Ageyne oon worde alweys he hade tweyne.
Sheo qwytt him euer, ther
was no thing to seeche,
Six for oon, of worde and strookes eeche.

Ther was no meen bytweene hem for to goone.
What euer he wan :
clowting olde shoone
The wykday, pleynely this is no tale,
Sheo
wolde on Sondayes drynk it at the nale. [70]

His part was noon, he
sayde not oonys nay.
Hit is no game, but an hernest play
For lack of
wit a man his wyf to greeve.
Theos housbondemen : who so wolde

hem leeve,
Koude yif they dourst telle : in Audyence,
What
folowethe ther of wyves to doone offence.
Is noon so olde ne ryveld
on hir face,
Wit tong or staff but that she dare manase.
Mabyle, God
hir sauve and blesse,
Koude yif hir list bere here of witnesse, [80]

Wordes, strookes vnhappe, and harde grace,
With sharp nayles
kracching in the face.
I mene thus, whane the distaff is brooke
With
theyre fistes wyves wol be wrooke.
Blessed thoo men that cane in suche offence
Meekly souffre, take al
in pacyence
Tendure suche wyfly purgatorye.
Heven for theyre
meede, to regne ther in glorye.
God graunt al housbandes that beon in
this place
To wynne so heven for his hooly grace. [90]
Nexst in ordre, this bochier stoute and bolde
That killed hathe bulles
and boores olde,
This Berthilmew, for al his broode knyff,
Yit durst
he neuer with his sturdy wyff
In no mater holde chaumpartye.
And
if he did, sheo wolde anoon defye
His pompe, his pryde, with a sterne
thought,
And sodeynly setten him at nought.
Thoughe his bely were
rounded lyche an ooke
She wolde not fail to gyf the first strooke.
[100] For proude Pernelle lyche a Chaumpyon
Wolde leve hir
puddinges in a gret Cawdroun,
Suffre hem boylle and taake of hem
noon heede,
But with hir skumour reeche him on the heued.
Shee
wolde paye him and make no delaye,
Bid him goo pleye him a twenty
deuel way.
She was no cowarde founde at suche a neode,
Hir fist
ful offt made his cheekis bleed.
What querell euer that he agenst hir
sette,
She cast hir not to dyen in his