SON. Alas, I am not able thus to endure,
Though thereunto I were never so willing;
For my wife is of such a crooked nature,
As no woman else in this day living,
And if the very truth I shall confess,
She is to me an evil that is endless.
FATHER. If that thou thinkest thyself alone
Only to lead this irksome life,
Thou may'st learn what grief, sorrow and moan,
Socrates had with Xantippe his wife[373];
Her husband full oft she taunted and checked,
And, as the book saith, unhonestly mocked.
SON. I cannot tell what was Socrates wife,
But mine I do know, alas, too well;
She is one that is evermore full of strife,
And of all scolders beareth the bell.
When she speaketh best, then brawleth her tongue;
When she is still, she fighteth apace;
She is an old witch, though she be young:
No mirth with her, no joy or solace!
FATHER. I cannot, my son, thy state redress;
Me thy father thou didst refuse;
Wherefore now help thy own foolishness,
And of thy wife no longer muse.
SON. My wife went forth into the country
With certain gossips to make good cheer,
And bad me at home still to be,
That at her return she might find me there:
And if that she do take me from home,[374]
My bones, alas, she will make to crackle,
And me her husband, as a stark mome,[375]
With knocking and mocking she will handle;
And, therefore, if I may not here remain,
Yet, loving father, give me your reward,
That I may with speed ride home again,
That to my wife's words have some regard.
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