Volume Ix Part 101 (2/2)

SCAR. False woman, not my wife, though married to me: Look what thy friends and thou art guilty of, The murder of a creature equall'd heaven In her creation, whose thoughts (like fire) Never look'd base, but ever did aspire To blessed benefits, till you and yours undid her: Eye her, view her; though dead, yet she does look Like a fresh frame or a new-printed book Of the best paper, never look'd into But with one sullied finger, which did spot her, Which was her own too; but who was cause of it?

Thou and thy friends, and I will loathe thee for't.

_Enter_ SIR JOHN HARCOP.

HAR. They do belie her that do say she's dead; She is but stray'd to some by-gallery, And I must have her again. Clare; where art thou, Clare?

SCAR. Here laid to take her everlasting sleep.

HAR. He lies that says so; Yet now I know thee, I do lie that say it, For if she be a villain like thyself, A perjur'd traitor, recreant, miscreant, Dog--a dog, a dog, has done't.

SCAR. O Sir John Harcop!

HAR. O Sir John villain! to betroth thyself To this good creature, harmless, harmless child: This kernel, hope, and comfort of my house: Without enforcement--of thine own accord: Draw all her soul in th'compa.s.s of an oath: Take that oath from her, make her for none but thee-- And then betray her!

SCAR. Shame on them were the cause of it.

HAR. But hark, what thou hast got by it: Thy wife is but a strumpet, thy children b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Thyself a murderer, thy wife accessory, Thy bed a stews, thy house a brothel.

SCAR. O, 'tis too true!

HAR. I made a wretched father, childless.

SCAR. I made a married man, yet wifeless.

HAR. Thou the cause of it?

SCAR. Thou the cause of it? [_To his wife_.

HAR. Curse on the day that e'er it was begun, For I, an old man, am undone, undone. [_Exit_.

SCAR. For charity, have care upon that father, Lest that his grief bring on a more mishap.

[_Exeunt_ THOMAS _and_ JOHN SCARBOROW.[378]

This to my arms my sorrow shall bequeath, Though I have lost her, to the grave I'll bring; Thou wert my wife, and I'll thy requiem sing.

Go you to the country, I'll to London back: All riot now, since that my soul's so black.

[_Exit, with_ CLARE.

KATH. Thus am I left like sea-toss'd mariners.

My fortunes being no more than my distress; Upon what sh.o.r.e soever I am driven, Be it good or bad, I must account it heaven:[379]

Though married, I am reputed no wife, Neglected of my husband, scorn'd, despis'd: And though my love and true obedience Lies prostrate to his beck, his heedless eye Receives my services unworthily.

I know no cause, nor will be cause of none, But hope for better days, when bad be gone.

You are my guide. Whither must I, butler?

BUT. Toward Wakefield, where my master's living lies.

KATH. Toward Wakefield, where thy master we'll attend; When things are at the worst, 'tis hop'd they'll mend.

_Enter_ THOMAS _and_ JOHN SCARBOROW.

THOM. How now, sister? no further forward on your journey yet?

KATH. When grief's before one, who'd go on to grief?

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