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.