Though he and all the world allowed her wit, Her voice was shrill, and rather loud than sweet, When she began,--for hat and sword he'd call. Then, after a faint kiss, cry, "B'y, dear Moll: Supper and friends expect me at the Rose."[83] And, "What, Sir John, you'll get your usual dose! Go, stink of smoke, and guzzle nasty wine, Sure, never virtuous love was used like mine!"
Oft as the watchful bellman marched his round, At a fresh bottle gay Sir John he found. By four the knight would get his business done, And only then reeled off, because alone; Full well he knew the dreadful storm to come, But armed with bordeaux, he durst venture home.
My lady with her tongue was still prepared, She rattled loud, and he impatient heard: "'Tis a fine hour? In a sweet pickle made! And this, Sir John, is every day the trade. Here I sit moping all the live-long night, Devoured with spleen, and stranger to delight; 'Till morn sends staggering home a drunken beast, Resolved to break my heart, as well as rest."
"Hey! Hoop! d'ye hear my damned obstreperous spouse! What, can't you find one bed about the house! Will that perpetual clack lie never still! That rival to the softness of a mill! Some couch and distant room must be my choice, Where I may sleep uncursed with wife and noise."
Long this uncomfortable life they led, With snarling meals, and each, a separate bed. To an old uncle oft she would complain, Beg his advice, and scarce from tears refrain. Old Wisewood smoked the matter as it was, "Cheer up!" cried he, "and I'll remove the cause.
"A wonderous spring within my garden flows, Of sovereign virtue, chiefly to compose Domestic jars, and matrimonial strife, The best elixir t' appease man and wife; Strange are th' effects, the qualities divine, 'Tis water called, but worth its weight in wine. If in his sullen airs Sir John should come, Three spoonfuls take, hold in your mouth--then mum: Smile, and look pleased, when he shall rage and scold, Still in your mouth the healing cordial hold; One month this sympathetic medecine tried, He'll grow a lover, you a happy bride. But, dearest niece, keep this grand secret close, Or every prattling hussy'll beg a dose."
A water-bottle's brought for her relief, Not Nantz could sooner ease the lady's grief: Her busy thoughts are on the trial bent, And female-like, impatient for th' event:
