SCAR.  By heaven—­

CLARE.  Advise, before you swear, let me remember you,[346]
Men never give their faith and promise marriage,
But heaven records their oath:  if they prove true,
Heaven smiles for joy; if not, it weeps for you: 
Unless your heart, then, with your words agree,
Yet let us part, and let us both be free.

SCAR.  If ever man, in swearing love, swore true,
My words are like to his.  Here comes your father.

    Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP, ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY, and Butler_.

HAR.  Now, Master Scarborrow.

SCAR.  Prepar’d to ask, how you like that we have done: 
Your daughter’s made my wife, and I your son.

HAR.  And both agreed so?

BOTH.  We are, sir.

HAR.  Then long may you live together, have store of sons!

ILF.  ’Tis no matter who is the father. [Aside.]

HAR.  But, son, here is a man of yours is come from London.

BUT.  And brought you letters, sir.

SCAR.  What news from London, butler?

BUT.  The old news, sir.  The ordinaries are full of cheaters, some citizens are bankrupts, and many gentlemen beggars.

SCAR.  Clare, here is an unwelcome pursuivant;
My lord and guardian writes to me, with speed
I must return to London.

HAR.  And you being ward to him, son Scarborow,
And no ingrate,[347] it fits that you obey him.

SCAR.[348] It does, it does; for by an ancient law
We are born free heirs, but kept like slaves in awe. 
Who are for London, gallants?

ILF.  Switch and Spur, we will bear you company.

SCAR.  Clare, I must leave thee—­with what unwillingness,
Witness this dwelling kiss upon thy lip;
And though I must be absent from thine eye,
Be sure my heart doth in thy bosom lie. 
Three years I am yet a ward, which time I’ll pass,
Making thy faith my constant looking-glass,
Till when—­

CLARE.  Till when you please, where’er you live or lie,
Your love’s here worn:  you’re present[349] in my eye.

    Enter LORD FALCONBRIDGE and SIR WILLIAM SCARBOROW.

LORD.  Sir William,
How old, say you, is your kinsman Scarborow?

WIL.  Eighteen, my lord, next Pentecost.

LORD.  Bethink you, good Sir William,
I reckon thereabout myself; so by that account
There’s full three winters yet he must attend
Under our awe, before he sue his livery: 
Is it not so?

WIL.  Not a day less, my lord.

LORD.  Sir William, you are his uncle, and I must speak,
That am his guardian; would I had a son
Might merit commendations equal[350] with him. 
I’ll tell you what he is:  he is a youth,
A noble branch, increasing blessed fruit,
Where caterpillar vice dare not to touch: 
He bears[351] himself with so much gravity,
Praise cannot praise him with hyperbole: 
He is one, whom older look upon as on a book: 
Wherein are printed noble sentences
For them to rule their lives by.  Indeed he is one,
All emulate his virtues, hate him none.