Page:Poor man's labour never done, or, The mother's advice.pdf/3

 The next half year that we were married,

ſhe bore to me a lovely babe,

She ſet me down to rock the cradle,

and give it caudle when it wak'd.

If it ſcreech'd, ſhe bitterly ſcolded,

then my, ſorrow was begun;

Womens' ways they muſt have pleaſure,

the poor man's labour's never done.

At twelve o'clock of the night,

ſhe would embrace me in my ſleep,

Take me in her infolded arms,

wanting what ſhe cannot get.

She bereaves me of the blankets,

if I ſpeak I'm forc'd to run,

Wanting breeches, wig and waiſtcoat,

the poor man's labour's never done.

All you that has a mind to marry,

I pray you marry a loving wife,

Do not marry my wife's ſiſter,

for ſhe will plague you all your life.

Do not marry her mother's daughter,

ſhe will plague you evermore;

Take from me my wife and welcome,

and then my care and trouble's o'er.

Out ſpoke my good old mother,

as ſhe ſat weeping all alone,

Son, ſhe ſaid, There's women plenty,

and why ſhould you be bound to one?