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;
For 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?
For wedding and hanging is destiny.

Besides this unkindness whereof my grief grows,
I think few tilers are match'd with such shrows;
Before she leaves brawling, she falls to deal blows
Which, early and late, doth cause me cry
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
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 cry
That wedding and hanging is destiny.