Classic Poem

Behold her lip, how thin it is; her nose
How sharp, her voice how shrill, which doth disclose
A froward shrew. Who hath her by mishap
Shall surely hear a constant thunder-clap:
Silence is her disease, for like a mill
Her clapper goes, and never standeth still.
By night hobgoblins houses haunt: this sprite
Doth vex and haunt the house both day and night.
The rack, the wheel, the Spanish Inquisition
Torments not like her tongue. A sad condition
Her husband lives in: like a coward he
Must leave the field and always vanquished be.
He must commend what she doth well approve,
And disallow of what she doth not love.
We tame wild fowls, bears, lions, but no art
To tame a shrew could any yet impart.

Behold her lip, how thin it is; her nose
How sharp, her voice how shrill, which doth disclose
A froward shrew. Who hath her by mishap
Shall surely hear a constant thunder-clap:
Silence is her disease, for like a mill
Her clapper goes, and never standeth still.
By night hobgoblins houses haunt: this sprite
Doth vex and haunt the house both day and night.
The rack, the wheel, the Spanish Inquisition
Torments not like her tongue. A sad condition
Her husband lives in: like a coward he
Must leave the field and always vanquished be.
He must commend what she doth well approve,
And disallow of what she doth not love.
We tame wild fowls, bears, lions, but no art
To tame a shrew could any yet impart.