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;

The proverb reporteth, no man can deny

[For]2 wedding and hanging is destiny

And I cannot help it, she saith; wot we why?

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?

The proverb reporteth, no man can deny

That wedding and hanging is destiny

Besides this unkindnеss whereof my grief grows

I think fеw tilers are match'd with such shrows;

Before she leaves brawling, she falls to deal blows

Which, early and late, doth cause me to cry

The proverb reporteth, no man can deny

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

The proverb reporteth, no man can deny

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 I cry

The proverb reporteth, no man can deny

That wedding and hanging is destiny