A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Ix Part 101

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'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?