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.