Volume Ix Part 101 (1/2)

Thou dying whilst I live, I am dead with woe.

_Enter_ THOMAS _and_ JOHN SCARBOROW.

THOM. What means this outcry?

JOHN. O ruthful spectacle!

HAR. Thou wert not wont to be so sullen, child, But kind and loving to thy aged father: Awake, awake! if't be thy lasting sleep, Would I had not sense for grief, nor eyes to weep.

JOHN. What paper's this? the sad contents do tell me, My brother writ he hath broke his faith to her, And she replies for him she hath kill'd herself.

HAR. Was that the cause that thou hast soil'd thyself With these red spots, these blemishes of beauty?

My child, my child! was't perjury in him Made thee so fair act now so foul a sin?

Hath[372] he deceived thee in a mother's hopes, Posterity, the bliss of marriage?

Thou hast no tongue to answer no or ay, But in red letters write,[373] _For him I die_.

Curse on his traitorous tongue, his youth, his blood, His pleasures, children, and possessions!

Be all his days, like winter, comfortless!

Restless his nights, his wants remorseless![374]

And may his corpse be the physician's stage, Which play'd upon stands not to honour'd age!

Or with diseases may he lie and pine, Till grief wax blind his eyes, as grief doth mine!

[_Exit_.

JOHN. O good old man, made wretched by this deed, The more thy age, more to be pitied.

_Enter_ SCARBOROW, _his wife_ KATHERINE, ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY, _and_ BUTLER.

ILF. What, ride by the gate, and not call? that were a shame, i'faith.

WEN. We'll but taste of his beer, kiss his daughter, and to horse again.

Where's the good knight here?

SCAR. You bring me to my shame unwillingly.

ILF. Shamed of what? for deceiving of a wench! I have not blushed, that have done't to a hundred of 'em?

In women's love he's wise that follow this, Love one so long, till he[375] another kiss.

Where's the good knight here?

JOHN. O brother, you are come to make your eye Sad mourner at a fatal tragedy.

Peruse this letter first, and then this corpse.

SCAR. O wronged Clare! accursed Scarborow!

I writ to her, _that I was married_, She writes to me, _Forgive her, she is dead_.

I'll balm thy body with my faithful tears, And be perpetual mourner at thy tomb; I'll sacrifice this comet into sighs,[376]

Make a consumption of this pile of man, And all the benefits my parents gave, Shall turn distemper'd to appease the wrath For this bloodshed, that[377] I am guilty of.

KATH. Dear husband!