Enter ILFORD, and a PAGE with him.

ILF. Boy, hast thou delivered my letter?

BOY. Ay, sir, I saw him open the lips on't.

ILF. He had not a new suit on, had he?

BOY. I am not so well acquainted with his wardrobe, sir; but I saw a lean fellow, with sunk eyes and shamble legs, sigh pitifully at his chamber door, and entreat his man to put his master in mind of him.

ILF. O, that was his tailor. I see now he will be blessed, he profits by my counsel: he will pay no debts, before he be arrested—nor then neither, if he can find e'er a beast that dare but be bail for him; but he will seal[359] i' th' afternoon?

BOY. Yes, sir, he will imprint for you as deep as he can.

ILF. Good, good, now have I a parson's nose, and smell tithe coming in then. Now let me number how many rooks I have half-undone already this term by the first return: four by dice, six by being bound with me, and ten by queans: of which some be courtiers, some country gentlemen, and some citizens' sons. Thou art a good Frank; if thou purgest[360] thus, thou art still a companion for gallants, may'st keep a catamite, take physic at the spring and the fall.

Enter WENTLOE.

WEN. Frank, news that will make thee fat, Frank.

ILF. Prythee, rather give me somewhat will keep me lean; I have no mind yet to take physic.

WEN. Master Scarborow is married, man.

ILF. Then heaven grant he may (as few married men do) make much of his wife.

WEN. Why? wouldst have him love her, let her command all, and make her his master?

ILF. No, no; they that do so, make not much of their wives, but give them their will, and its the marring of them.

Enter BARTLEY.

BAR. Honest Frank, valorous Frank, a portion of thy wit, but to help us in this enterprise, and we may walk London streets, and cry pish at the serjeants.

ILF. You may shift out one term, and yet die in the Counter. These are the scabs now that hang upon honest Job. I am Job, and these are the scurvy scabs [aside]; but what's this your pot seethes over withal?

BAR. Master Scarborough is married, man.

WEN. He has all his land in his own hand.

BAR. His brother's and sister's portions.

WEN. Besides four thousand pounds in ready money with his wife.

ILF. A good talent,[361] by my faith; it might help many gentlemen to pay their tailors, and I might be one of them.

WEN. Nay, honest Frank, hast thou found a trick for him? if thou hast not, look, here's a line to direct thee. First draw him into bands[362] for money, then to dice for it; then take up stuff at the mercer's; straight to a punk with it; then mortgage his land, and be drunk with that; so with them and the rest, from an ancient gentleman make him a young beggar.

ILF. What a rogue this is, to read a lecture to me—and mine own lesson too, which he knows I have made perfect to nine hundred fourscore and nineteen! A cheating rascal! will teach me!—I, that have made them, that have worn a spacious park, lodge, and all on their backs[363] this morning, been fain to pawn it afore night! And they that have stalked like a huge elephant, with a castle on their necks, and removed that to their own shoulders in one day, which their fathers built up in seven years—been glad by my means, in so much time as a child sucks, to drink bottle-ale, though a punk pay for't. And shall this parrot instruct me?

WEN. Nay, but, Frank—

ILF. A rogue that hath fed upon me and the fruit of my wit, like pullen[364] from a pantler's chippings, and now I have put him into good clothes to shift two suits in a day, that could scarce shift a patched shirt once in a year, and say his prayers when he had it—hark, how he prates!

WEN. Besides, Frank, since his marriage, he stalks me like a cashiered captain discontent; in, which melancholy the least drop of mirth, of which thou hast an ocean, will make him and all his ours for ever.

ILF. Says mine own rogue so? Give me thy hand then; we'll do't, and there's earnest. [Strikes him.] 'Sfoot, you chittiface, that looks worse than a collier through a wooden window, an ape afraid of a whip, or a knave's head, shook seven years in the weather upon London Bridge[365]—do you catechise me?

WEN. Nay, but valorous Frank, he that knows the secrets of all hearts knows I did it in kindness.

ILF. Know your seasons: besides, I am not of that species for you to instruct. Then know your seasons.

BAR. 'Sfoot, friends, friends, all friends; here comes young Scarborow.
Should he know of this, all our designs were prevented.

Enter SCARBOROW.

ILF. What! melancholy, my young master, my young married man? God give your worship joy.

SCAR. Joy of what, Frank?

ILF. Of thy wealth, for I hear of few that have joy of their wives.

SCAR. Who weds as I have to enforced sheets,
His care increaseth, but his comfort fleets.

ILF. Thou having so much wit, what a devil meant'st thou to marry?

SCAR. O, speak not of it,
Marriage sounds in mine ear like a bell,
Not rung for pleasure, but a doleful knell.

ILF. A common course: those men that are married in the morning to wish themselves buried ere night.

SCAR. I cannot love her.

ILF. No news neither. Wives know that's a general fault amongst their husbands.

SCAR. I will not lie with her.

ILF. Caeteri volunt, she'll say still;
If you will not, another will.

SCAR. Why did she marry me, knowing I did not love her?

ILF. As other women do, either to be maintained by you, or to make you a cuckold. Now, sir, what come you for?

Enter CLOWN.

CLOWN. As men do in haste, to make an end of their business.

ILF. What's your business?

CLOWN. My business is this, sir—this, sir—and this, sir.

ILF. The meaning of all this, sir?

CLOWN. By this is as much as to say, sir, my master has sent unto you; by this is as much as to say, sir, my master has him humbly commended unto you; and by this is as much as to say, my master craves your answer.

ILF. Give me your letter, and you shall have this, sir, this, sir, and this, sir. [Offers to strike him.

CLOWN. No, sir.

ILF. Why, sir?

CLOWN. Because, as the learned have very well instructed me, Qui supra nos, nihil ad nos, and though many gentlemen will have to do with other men's business, yet from me know the most part of them prove knaves for their labour.

WEN. You ha' the knave, i'faith, Frank.

CLOWN. Long may he live to enjoy it. From Sir John Harcop, of Harcop, in the county of York, Knight, by me his man, to yourself my young master, by these presents greeting.

ILF. How cam'st thou by these good words?

CLOWN. As you by your good clothes, took them upon trust, and swore I would never pay for them.

SCAR. Thy master, Sir John Harcop, writes to me,
That I should entertain thee for my man.
His wish is acceptable; thou art welcome, fellow.
O, but thy master's daughter sends an article,
Which makes me think upon my present sin;
Here she remembers me to keep in mind
My promis'd faith to her, which I ha' broke.
Here she remembers me I am a man,
Black'd o'er with perjury, whose sinful breast
Is charactered like those curst of the blest.

ILF. How now, my young bully, like a young wench, forty weeks after the loss of her maidenhead, crying out.

SCAR. Trouble me not. Give me pen, ink, and paper;
I will write to her. O! but what shall I write
In mine excuse?[366] why, no excuse can serve
For him that swears, and from his oath doth swerve.
Or shall I say my marriage was enforc'd?
'Twas bad in them; not well in me to yield:
Wretched they two, whose marriage was compell'd.
I'll only write that which my grief hath bred:
Forgive me, Clare, for I am married:
'Tis soon set down, but not so soon forgot
Or worn from hence—
Deliver it unto her, there's for thy pains.
Would I as soon could cleanse these perjur'd stains!

CLOWN. Well, I could alter mine eyes from filthy mud into fair water: you have paid for my tears, and mine eyes shall prove bankrouts, and break out for you. Let no man persuade me: I will cry, and every town betwixt Shoreditch Church and York Bridge shall bear me witness. [Exit.

SCAR. Gentlemen, I'll take my leave of you,
She that I am married to, but not my wife,
Will London leave, in Yorkshire lead our life. [Exit.

ILF. We must not leave you so, my young gallant; we three are sick in
state, and your wealth must help to make us whole again. For this saying
is as true as old—
Strife nurs'd 'twixt man and wife makes such a flaw,
How great soe'er their wealth, 'twill have a thaw.

[Exeunt.

Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP with his daughter CLARE, and two younger brothers, THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW.

HAR. Brothers to him ere long shall be my son
By wedding this young girl: you are welcome both.
Nay, kiss her, kiss her; though that she shall be
Your brother's wife, to kiss the cheek is free.

THOM. Kiss, 'sfoot, what else? thou art a good plump wench, I like you well; prythee, make haste and bring store of boys; but be sure they have good faces, that they may call me uncle.

JOHN. Glad of so fair a sister, I salute you.

HAR. Good, good, i' faith, this kissing's good, i' faith,
I lov'd to smack it too when I was young,
But mum: they have felt thy cheek, Clare, let them hear thy tongue.

CLARE. Such welcome as befits my Scarborow's brothers,
From me his trothplight wife be sure to have,
And though my tongue prove scant in any part,
The bounds be sure are full large[367] in my heart.

THOM. Tut, that's not that we doubt on, wench; but do you hear, Sir John? what do you think drew me from London and the Inns of Court thus far into Yorkshire?

HAR. I guess, to see this girl shall be your sister.

THOM. Faith, and I guess partly so too, but the main was—and I will not lie to you—that, your coming now in this wise into our kindred, I might be acquainted with you aforehand, that after my brother had married your daughter, I his brother might borrow some money of you.

HAR. What, do you borrow of your kindred, sir?

THOM. 'Sfoot, what else? they, having interest in my blood, why should I not have interest in their coin? Besides, sir, I, being a younger brother, would be ashamed of my generation if I would not borrow of any man that would lend, especially of my affinity, of whom I keep a calendar. And look you, sir, thus I go over them. First o'er my uncles: after, o'er mine aunts: then up to my nephews: straight down to my nieces: to this cousin Thomas and that cousin Jeffrey, leaving the courteous claw given to none of their elbows, even unto the third and fourth remove of any that hath interest in our blood. All which do, upon their summons made by me, duly and faithfully provide for appearance. And so, as they are, I hope we shall be, more entirely endeared, better and more feelingly acquainted.[368]

HAR. You are a merry gentleman.

THOM. 'Tis the hope of money makes me so; and I know none but fools use to be sad with it.

JOHN. From Oxford am I drawn from serious studies,
Expecting that my brother still hath sojourn'd
With you, his best of choice, and this good knight.

HAR. His absence shall not make our hearts less merry,
Than if we had his presence. A day ere long
Will bring him back, when one the other meets,
At noon i'th' church, at night between the sheets.
We'll wash this chat with wine. Some wine! fill up;
The sharp'ner of the wit is a full cup.
And so to you, sir.

THOM. Do, and I'll drink to my new sister; but upon this condition, that she may have quiet days, little rest o' nights, have pleasant afternoons, be pliant to my brother, and lend me money, whensoe'er I'll borrow it.

HAR. Nay, nay, nay.
Women are weak, and we must bear with them:
Your frolic healths are only fit for men.

THOM. Well, I am contented; women must to the wall, though it be to a feather-bed. Fill up, then. [They drink.

Enter CLOWN.

CLOWN. From London am I come,
Though not with pipe and drum,
Yet I bring matter
In this poor paper
Will make my young mistress,
Delighting in kisses,
Do as all maidens will,
Hearing of such an ill,
As to have lost
The thing they wish'd most,
A husband, a husband,
A pretty sweet husband,
Cry O, O, O,
And alas, and at last
Ho, ho, ho,
As I do.

CLARE. Return'd so soon from London? what's the news?

CLOWN. O mistress, if ever you have seen Demoniseacleer, look into mine eyes: mine eyes are Severn, plain Severn; the Thames nor the river of Tweed are nothing to them: nay, all the rain that fell at Noah's flood had not the discretion that my eyes have: that drunk but up the whole world, and I have drowned all the way betwixt this and London.

CLARE. Thy news, good Robin.

CLOWN. My news, mistress? I'll tell you strange news. The dust upon London way being so great, that not a lord, gentleman, knight, or knave could travel, lest his eyes should be blown out: at last they all agreed to hire me to go before them, when I, looking but upon this letter, did with this water, this very water, lay the dust, as well as if it had rained from the beginning of April till the last of May.

CLARE. A letter from my Scarborow I give it thy mistress.

CLOWN. But, mistress—

CLARE. Prythee, begone,
I would not have my father nor these gentlemen
Be witness of the comfort it doth bring.

CLOWN. O, but mistress—

CLARE. Prythee, begone,
With this and the glad news leave me alone.

[Exit CLOWN.

THOM. 'Tis your turn, knight; take your liquor, know I am bountiful;
I'll forgive any man anything that he owes me but his drink, and that
I'll be paid for.

CLARE. Nay, gentlemen, the honesty of mirth
Consists not in carousing with excess;
My father hath more welcomes than in wine.
Pray you, no more.

THOM. Says my sister so? I'll be ruled by thee then. But do you hear? I hope hereafter you'll lend me some money. Now we are half-drunk, let's go to dinner. Come, knight. [Exeunt.

Manet CLARE.

CLARE. I am glad you're gone.
Shall I now open't? no, I'll kiss it first,
Because this outside last did kiss his hand.
Within this fold (I'll call't a sacred sheet)
Are writ black lines, where our white hearts shall meet.
Before I ope this door of my delight,
Methinks I guess how kindly he doth write
Of his true love to me; as chuck, sweetheart,
I prythee do not think the time too long
That keeps us from the sweets of marriage rites:
And then he sets my name, and kisses it,
Wishing my lips his sheet to write upon;
With like desire (methinks) as mine own thoughts
Ask him now here for me to look upon;
Yet at the last thinking his love too slack,
Ere it arrive at my desired eyes,
He hastens up his message with like speed,
Even as I break this ope, wishing to read.
O, what is here? mine eyes are not mine own;
Sure, sure, they are not. [O eyes,]
Though you have been my lamps this sixteen years,
[Lets fall the letter.
You do belie my Scarborow reading so;
Forgive him, he is married, that were ill:
What lying lights are these? look, I have no such letter,
No wedded syllable of the least wrong
Done to a trothplight virgin like myself.
Beshrew you for your blindness: Forgive him, he is married!
I know my Scarborow's constancy to me
Is as firm knit as faith to charity,
That I shall kiss him often, hug him thus,
Be made a happy and a fruitful mother
Of many prosperous children like to him;
And read I, he was married! ask'd forgiveness?
What a blind fool was I; yet here's a letter,
To whom, directed too? To my beloved Clare.
Why, la!
Women will read, and read not that they saw.
'Twas but my fervent love misled mine eyes,
I'll once again to the inside, Forgive me, I am married;
William Scarborow. He has set his name to't too.
O perjury! within the hearts of men
Thy feasts are kept, their tongue proclaimeth them.

Enter THOMAS SCARBOROW.

THOM. Sister, God's precious, the cloth's laid, the meat cools, we all stay, and your father calls for you.

CLARE. Kind sir, excuse me, I pray you, a little;
I'll but peruse this letter, and come straight.

THOM. Pray you, make haste, the meat stays for us, and our stomach's
ready for the meat; for believe this—
Drink makes men hungry, or it makes them lie,[369]
And he that's drunk o'er night, i'th'morning's dry:
Seen and approved. [Exit.

CLARE. He was contracted mine, yet he unjust
Hath married to another: what's my estate, then?
A wretched maid, not fit for any man;
For being united his with plighted faiths,
Whoever sues to me commits a sin,
Besiegeth me; and who shall marry me,
Is like myself, lives in adultery. O God,
That such hard fortune should betide my youth!
I am young, fair, rich, honest, virtuous,
Yet for all this, whoe'er shall marry me,
I'm but his whore, live in adultery.
I cannot step into the path of pleasure
For which I was created, born unto:
Let me live ne'er so honest, rich or poor,
If I once wed, yet I must live a whore.
I must be made a strumpet 'gainst my will,
A name I have abhorr'd; a shameful ill
I have eschewed; and now cannot withstand it
In myself. I am my father's only child:
In me he hath a hope, though not his name
Can be increas'd, yet by my issue
His land shall be possess'd, his age delighted.
And though that I should vow a single life
To keep my soul unspotted, yet will he
Enforce me to a marriage:
So that my grief doth of that weight consist,
It helps me not to yield nor to resist;
And was I then created for a whore? a whore!
Bad name, bad act, bad man, makes me a scorn:
Than live a strumpet, better be unborn.[370]

Enter JOHN SCARBOROW.

JOHN. Sister, pray you, will you come? Your father and the whole meeting stays for you.

CLARE. I come, I come; I pray, return; I come.

JOHN. I must not go without you.

CLARE. Be thou my usher, sooth, I'll follow you. [Exit.
He writes here to forgive him, he is married:
False gentleman, I do forgive thee with my heart;
Yet will I send an answer to thy letter,
And in so short words thou shalt weep to read them,
And here's my agent ready: Forgive me, I am dead.
'Tis writ, and I will act it. Be judge, you maids
Have trusted the false promises of men:
Be judge, you wives, the which have been enforc'd
From the white sheets you lov'd to them ye loathed:
Whether this axiom may not be assured,—
Better one sin than many be endured:
My arms embracing, kisses, chastity,
Were his possessions; and whilst I live,
He doth but steal those pleasures he enjoys,
Is an adulterer in his married arms,
And never goes to his defiled bed,
But God writes sin upon the tester's head.
I'll be a wife now, help to save his soul
Though I have lost his body: give a slake
To his iniquities, and with one sin,
Done by this hand, and many done by him.
Farewell the world then, farewell the wedded joys
Till this I have hop'd for from that gentleman!
Scarborow, forgive me; thus thou hast lost thy wife,
Yet record, world,[371] though by an act too foul,
A wife thus died to cleanse her husband's soul.

[Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP.]

HAR. God's precious for his mercy, where's this wench?
Must all my friends and guests attend on you?
Where are you, minion?

CLARE. Scarborow, come, close mine eyes; for I am dead.

HAR. That sad voice was not hers, I hope:
Who's this?
My daughter?

CLARE. Your daughter,
That begs of you to see her buried,
Prays Scarborow to forgive her: she is dead. [Dies.

HAR. Patience, good tears, and let my words have way!
Clare, my daughter! help, my servants, there!
Lift up thine eyes, and look upon thy father,
They were not born to lose their light so soon:
I did beget thee for my comforter,
And not to be the author of my care.
Why speakest thou not? some help, my servants, there!
What hand hath made thee pale? or if thine own,
What cause hadst thou, that wert thy father's joy,
The treasure of his age, the cradle of his sleep,
His all in all? I prythee, speak to me:
Thou art not ripe for death; come back again.
Clare, my Clare, if death must needs have one,
I am the fittest: prythee, let me go.
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!

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'compass 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 bastards,
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 shore 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?
I'd rather turn me back to find some comfort.

JOHN. And that way sorrow's hurtfuller than this,
My brother having brought unto a grave
That murder'd body whom he call'd his wife,
And spent so many tears upon her hearse,
As would have made a tyrant to relent;
Then, kneeling at her coffin, this he vow'd
From thence he never would embrace your bed.

THOM. The more fool he.

JOHN. Never from hence acknowledge you his wife:
Where others strive t'enrich their father's name,
It should be his only aim to beggar ours,
To spend their means should be his only pride:
Which, with a sigh confirm'd, he's rid to London,
Vowing a course,[380] that by his life so foul
Men ne'er should join the hands without the soul.

KATH. All is but grief, and I am arm'd for it.

JOHN. We'll bring you on your way in hope thus strong:
Time may at length make straight what yet is wrong.

[Exeunt.