One of these Cuccold-making Queanes

did graft her husbands head:

who arm’d with anger, steele and horne

would kill him stain’d his bed,

And challeng’d him unto the field,

Vowing to have his life,

Where being met, sirha (quoth he,)

I doe suspect my Wife

Is scarce so honest as she should,

You make of her some use:

Indeed said he I love her well,

Ile frame no false excuse.

O! d’ye confesse? by heavens (quoth he)

Had’st thou deni’de thy guilt,

This blade had gone into thy guts,

Even to the verie Hilt.