The Catologue of Contented Cuckolds:
OR, A
Loving Society of Confessing Brethren of the Forked Order, &c.
who being met together in a Tavern, declar'd each Man his Condition, resolving to be contented, and drown'd Melacholly in a Glass of Necktar.
To the Tune of,
Fond Boy, &c. or,
Love's a sweet Passion, &c.
FUll ten honest Tradesmen did happen to meet,
In a Tavern, it seems, about
Leaden-hall-street;
One a Brewer, a Baker, a Cook, and a Taylor;
With a Turner, a Gold-smith, a Marchant, a Sayler;
Nay, a Doctor, a Surgeon which opens the vein:
These was good honest Tradesmen, all Cuckolds in grain.
My Wife, quoth the Brewer, is charming and fair,
She will ramble a broad, but I never know where;
Yet at midnight sometimes she returns with a Spark;
Nay, I sometimes have found her at Put in the dark:
Yet I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
I will now be contented, and never repine.
The Baker, he cry'd, There is
Rob
[...]n my man,
He will play with his Dame, let me do what I can;
Once I happen'd to catch him in Bed by her side,
You'd a laught to have seen how I liquor'd his hide:
But I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
I will now be contented, and never repine.
The Cook he cry'd out, I am none of the least,
For when ever I go to a Dinner, or Feast,
There is brawny young
William, the Poulterer's Man,
He will kiss my sweet Wife for a Sop in the Pan:
Yet I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
I will now be contented, and never repine.
The Taylor sat sighing and scratching his ears,
Quoth he, I have been Cuckold'd this three or four Years,
By a Saylesman who gave my sweet wife her Silk-gown,
When he comes up my stairs, I am forc'd to go down:
It cannot be avoided, I'll swear by this Wine,
But I'll now be contented, and never repine.
In troth, quoth the Turner, 'tis my very Case,
For when her Gallant comes I am forc'd to give place.
To my work straight I go where I labour and toy,
And I leave him to turn up my wife the mean while;
But my pocket with Genea's of Gold he doth
[...]ine,
Therefore I'll be contented, and never repine.
O, then, said the Goldsmith, pray hear my complaint,
Sirs, I marry'd a Quaker she seem'd like a Saint,
Yet a Horn to the World I have reason to blow,
O the innocent Lamb has a dark way to go:
Yet I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine,
I will now be contented, and never repine.
The Merchant he
[...]ry'd, When I go to the
Change,
With a Master of Musick my Lady will range,
To the Tavern, and thereon her Lute he must play,
She may dance, but I'm sure I the Musick must pay
With my Treasure his pockets she often will line,
Yet contented I'll be, 'tis in vain to repine.
The Saylor cry'd, Brothers, hear me if you please,
Three or four Years together I plough'd the rough Seas.
In my abscence my Wife had a Daughter and Son,
And I found a great Panyer as big as a Sun:
I cry'd out, My sweet
Nancy 'faith this is fine?
Be contented, said she, 'tis in vain to repine.
Come, come, said the Docter, the best of us all
Cannot be our Wives Keepers, they are subject to fall:
Friends by woful Experience I speak it indeed,
I have one that will help a kind Friend at his need:
Yet I swear by this Glass of rich sparkling Wine:
I will now be contented, and never repine.
The Surgeon he cry'd, Sirs, I'll tell you a jest,
For I'm sure I am a Cuckold as well as the best:
Once I follow'd my Wife and her Spark to
Horn-fair,
Where I took them both napping as
Moss catcht his Mare,
He was letting her Blood near the Leg and the Loyn;
I was almost Horn-mad, I began to repine.
Since we are ten Cuckolds here all on a row,
We will drink each a Bottle before we do go,
For to drown Melancholly in liquor of Life;
He's a fool that will weep for the Sins of his Wife;
Let us tipple Canary, and never complain,
There is better than we that are Cuckolds in grain.
LONDON: Printed for J. Conyers, next door to the Standard Tavern, in Leicester-fields.