I like this version a bit better, although it's incomplete. I suspect it's older than the version above, although neither has a date. Maybe someone can contrive an ending to this one based on the other versions.

From Bodleian Library Broadside Ballads Harding B 25(1535).

A POOR MAN'S LABOUR'S NEVER DONE.

When I was a bachelor, I lived rarely.
O, my mind it was content!
I married a wife for to lie by me,
Which makes me now for to repent.
When I fetched (?) a servant to her,
To milk her cows and black her shoon,
Women's ways they must have pleasure.
A poor man's labour's never done.

The first half-year that we were married,
I scarce could get one hour's sleep.
She rubbed my shins till blood did trickle,
Crying, "Husband, keep down your feet."
When I asked her the reason,
She cried, "Husband, come, come, come!"
Women's ways they must have pleasure.
A poor man's labour's never done.

She would embrace me in her folding arms
At eleven o'clock all in the night.
She bereaves me of the blankets,
And if I speak, I'm forced to run,
Wanting wig, waistcoat, or breeches.
Then my sorrows are begun.
Women's ways they must have pleasure.
A poor man's labour's never done.

The next half year that we were married,
She bore to me a lovely babe.
She sets me down to rock the cradle.
She gives it cordials when it wakes.
If it cries, she bitterly scolds me.
Then my sorrows are begun.
Women's ways they must have pleasure.
A poor man's labour's never done.

When I rise early in the morning
For fear my work ...
My wife's in bed till eleven o'clock
...

[The remainder of the lyrics are mostly illegible, due to the poor quality of the digital image.]