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.