Selected quad for the lemma: love_n
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A19320
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The seuen sorowes that women haue when theyr husbandes be deade. Compyled by Robert Copland
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Copland, Robert, fl. 1508-1547.
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1565
(1565)
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STC 5734; ESTC S116521
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9,951
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27
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doth nothyng lacke From her chamber she cometh a downe Than for great fere to fall in aswowne Upon her she bereth some confeccion As powder of peper or a red onyon And whan she cometh thre y e corps doth lye Her handes she wryngeth pyteously Out out alas what shall I do forth on Wolde god I were by thy graue anon This sorow is longe what shal me now betyde I beseche Iesu thy soule in heauen may bide ¶ The second sorow THe seconde sorow that these wyues do make Is whan .iiii. men the corps on theÌ„ do take Toward the chyrche and the prestes do syng This wofull wydow al waye folowyng With bedes in hande in mournynge hood God knoweth yf syghes do her any good Now thinketh she here haue I much to do And haply thys wydowe hath a shorte sho That streyneth her toes and doeth hurte her fote Than thynketh she I be shrew the hearte rote Of the horeson sowter it greueth me so And to the chrche we haue ferre to go Or els she is laced in her new blacke gowne That for straytnes she is lyke to swone Or els it may fortune so that she Hath in her som lose infyrmyte Or els the wynde doth waste the waxe to sore And she knowes well that she must pay therfore But whan they nyghe vnto the churche be who soroweth nowe for so the none but she I can suppose beyng so nere the place where he must rest this is a heuy case Who sygheth now alas this pore woman For I am sure that she woulde be as than As farre home warde but she dothe take in worthe This heuy chaunce and wofully goeth forthe And to herselfe al pryuely doth saye what remedy all is wel on the waye well a way than sayd the executour That ledeth her why make ye this dolour I you ensure that ye do God displease So for to fare but it were more ease For the soule to saye som good oreyson Nothynge can helpe your lamentacyon Alas syr she sayeth ye saye of certaynete But yet my heart can not so serue me And therewithall she doeth wepe so fast That her heart tikleth as it would brast O kynde womane I blame the not at all Thou woulde hym haue in christen buryall ¶ The thyrd sorowe FOrth now than goeth this wofull creature To the thyrd sorowe I may you well ensure In to the chyrche and sytteth in a pewe Full often than chaungeth all her hewe For veray fayntnes or is to harde enbraced Would God sayth she that I were vnlaced Or els may chaunce with chylde that she go Of .x. wekes tyme or haply of mo Or els some qualme may in her stomacke ryse As women haue in many dyuers wyse But for all that this wydowe sytteth styll Puttyng her selfe all in goddes wyll Hearyng deuoutly the deuyne songe A Iesu mercy thys seruyce is longe And she is very sycke and would be thence In fayth I had leuer that .xl. pence She were awaye so I myght her excuse But not so she will her selfe sadly vse Men shal not say y t she would fayne be ryde Her sorowes shal be womanly hyde And in her prayers her selfe occupy Ne were it so that the beggers cry On her so faste and let her for to pray with some good man haue these folke away I neuer sawe such folke and so lewde withstande at the dore knaues al be shrewde ye troble this woman and it is no nede Come to morowe and ye may haply spede Thus is thys woman troublously arayde Tyll that the last dyryge is sayde And wyth the corps walketh to the pytte But than in dede harde is to forgette Alas sayth she all this busines Nowe were me leuer for to die than lyfe Now wyll I all my goodes away gyue The mantyll and ryng now wyll I take A las alas now must I leue my make Fare well my Ioye thou act gone for euer Ah my pore herte in sonder wyll sheuer Ah fals death why haste thou hym so slayne And leueth me here in thys most woful payne Thus nethelesse this man is layde alowe And than y e priest earth vpoÌ„ him doth throw She seyng that loketh full heuely Upon the clerke and wofully doth crye A good swete man please it the trinite That I were layd vpryght vnder thee Whan this is done though it be to her payne As wo full as she went she must go home agayne ¶ The fourth sorowe NOwe wofull women Iesu be thy spede Harde is to knowe what lyfe thou wilt lede All this nyght when I to me mynde call With no more rest than a stone in a wall Now wyll thou consyder thy great coste And howe thow hast a good husbande lofte I meane thy bedfelowe for he is gone Thus is a newe payne for to lye a lone Now muse thou must where thou wast woÌ„t to plai yet for all this as sone as any day Thâ—u must a rys and ouerse thy hous With come here go there as busy as a mous Bring this fetche that care this thens walke hyther renne thyther be not long thens Go for hym fetche her and desyre them To go wyth me to the masse of Requiem Lo thus these women can not be out of care But what than yet wyl they nothyng spare To be quyte of thys charges and what than God haue mercy on hys soule good man I am well a payde that I haue brought to passe Thus far forth now let vs go to masse Beshorow me yf I woulde take suche payne On condicion to haue hym agayne Whan for thys for that one thyng and other Fye on it Fye I swere by godds mother ye wyll not beleue what is the exspens For this .xl. shyllynges and for that .xl. penens Here a noble and there well nyghe a pounde There goeth a grote and there a shyllyng rounde The prestes and clarkes for the knyll and pyt And other thynges that I am wery of it Here is great sorow but what remedy Go we to church I pray you hartely I thinke this sorow wyl euer last Mayde lay meate to fyre for our breke fast Agaynste we come home wel wel mayitresse ye shal se me do al my busines To masse now is the widow on her way Deuoutly for her husband to pray There doth she syt god wat how sore mournynge Tyl that the tyme come of the offring Than for her husbande can not fro her mynde The most fayrest peny that she can fynde She taketh and in to the quere Sayng softly that al the prestes may here Lokyng on the peny with wofull eye Full loth am I to depart fro the I can not blame her yf she were lothe to parte Wyth that she loueth wel with all her harte Thus with her loue sorowe and kyndnesse The wydowe bydeth the residewe of the masse ¶ The fyfth sorowe THe fyfth sorowe is very dolorous As he is buried and the wyfe in hous Alone is left and al her neyghbours gone Styl museth
she than makyng great mone Sayng wo is me thys tyme for to se Now must I both husband and wyfe be yet what of that I may take such sorow Parauenture to dye or to morowe Nay let it be for I wyl take no thought Sorow wyl ryght soone bryng me to nought Now syth he be gon wel what remedy Other be wyddwes as wel as I Than sytteth she sadly downe on the benche What Ione I say and called her wenche Come hyther Ione to me is your hous drest I pray god gyue all chrysten soules good rest And w t her knyfe bytwene her fyngers two She dalieth waggyng it to and fro With dydle dydle dydle tyrle tyrle tyrle The brayne rennyth and ther of no terle As in suche a case and than wyl requyre O sorowe great more hote than the fyre Now is thys woman in greate fantasy And no maruayle yet hathe she no couse whi For haply he was vnto her vnkynde But for al that as clene out of her mynd Of womanhed and eke of here kyndnes She dothe forget hys waywerde folyshnes And dote performe the tenour of hys wyl And is in purpose hys mynd to fulfyl Remembrynge greatly how the pore soule is In great peryl yf he haue left ought amysse And than a gayne her owne selfe for to chere Her mayde she calleth as I dyd saye ere Com hyther I one and god on my arande God and desire my gossyp Coplande My gosseyp Miles and my gssip Susan My gossip Stodarde and my neybour An The good wyfe Rychardson the good wyfe Gayes And to Peters vyfe pray them streyght wayes To do so moch as to come speke with me And whan thou hast done loke that thou hie the And take a pot and go to saint Iohans heade For a quart of Muscadel and newe bread â— couple of bounes or maunchettes newe bake For I promyse thee my hert doth ake Anone maystresse sayth she as a good damsell And douth her message right fayre and well And whan the gossyppes assembled be What chere goode gossyp than sayeth she and she Be ye of good chere and thanke god of all This worlde ye se doth tourne lyke as a ball Now vp and now downe now to and now fro Now myrth than Ioye nowe care and than wo A good man god haue mercy on thy soule By my trouth whan I dyd her the bell tole My hert erned and I shall tell you why Ah good man thou speke ful meryly Thys day seuen nyght and now thou art ful lowe Now by my faythe in al this strete I trowe Is not his felow in euery degree By my sowle yf ye wyll beleue me I trowe he wyll neuer out of my mynde Surly gossyp he was euer kynde A Iesu howe he woulde you prayes His mynde was so occupyed alwayes On this worlde in his myrth and his game I harde hym neuer no man defame Ah gossyp gossyp sayth thys wydow than Though I say it he was an honest man He left me so to dryue the wat a way That I am bounde for hym dayly to pray For by thys syluere and wyne in this cuppe And therewith she made a soppe Saynge of gossyppes my hert is so sore That I care not whyche ende doth go a fore And therewyth putteth it in to her mouthe And swere by hym that dyed in the southe There was neuer sorow wo nor smerte That euer dyd go more nerer my herte Alacke good woman take it not so heuyly Sayth her gossyppes lest that ye dye Now he is gone there is no better reede Thus this wydowe they comfort euery day The best they can to dryue her care a way ¶ The syxte sorowe Now hath thys wydow thanked be Iesu Performed the buriyng as to her is due Sadly and wysely me nede not to tell She hath behaued her ther in so well That I dare sweare if it chaunce her agayne She can it do with lesse coste and payne But for all that she is to hym so kynde Thao she wyl not forget his monethes minde Nor his annuuersary at the yeres ende She doth so well that eche doth here commende She renneth not hourly fro house to hous But kepeth home as duly as a mous Erly she ryseth and lyeth downe late And laboureth sore to kepe her estate Walkyng sadly in towne and strete Without acquayntaunce of them that she mete And somtyme hereth how folke doth der prayes Unus Se ye yonder wydowe that goeth that wayes I ensuer you she is a sadde woman By my trouth if I were a sengleman If I had fourty pounde and fourty there by I could fynde in my herte to make her lady Alyus ye but I pray you is she of any substaunce That would make a man any fortheraunce Unus ye by sant Mary I holde her well at ease I tell you if that ye coulde her please Or haue her good wyll than were it cocke For better it were to haue her in her smocke Than som other that hath more good It is a great treasure to haue womanhood Alius That is truth but I shall tell you one thyng Many that been so smothe in their goyng Been also shrewed as is the deuell of hell And neuer cease but euer fyght and yell Euer vnquiet and alway chyde and brall And that freteth a man both herte and gall And many tymes in stede of fleshe or fyshe A dede mannes head is serued in a dyshe And he ther with is made so very mate That hous and profite he doth in maner hate For I haue herde a hundred tymes and mo That wyues smoke cause men there hous to for go Unus He that is afrayde to treade on the grasse Through medowes I counsell hym not to passe He must aduenture that shuche a thyng wyll haue Often he for goeth that fereth for to craue Thus been these wowers euer in greate doubt That sumtyme do bryng ther mater so a bout That they went to haue God by the cote And haue the dyuel fast a bout the throte As I haue herde say I wote not what it meaneth The matter goeth not as some folke weneth But what of that we must forth on procede To our wydowe Iesu be oure spede She lyueth so well and so honestly That all her knowledge woweth her company Fro the tauerne daunces and common players And wanton may games she kepeht her alwaies Pleasaunt pylgrymages wylsdon and Crome She seketh not but tarieth styll at home So chaunceth it that on a festfulday Whan that folke wandred â—o pastyme and play This woman at home hath a delyte to be Saufe to the dore no farther walketh she And on thresholde fortuneth to syt Than som neyghbour happeneth to se it And to her cometh to pastyme and to talke For she no lust hath a brode as than to walke with good euen fayre wydowe how do ye to day well I thanke you as a lone woman may That hath great charges and but smal counsel wel neyghbour sayth he