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. THOM. The more fool he. JOHN. Never from hence acknowledge you his wife: Where others strive t'enrich their father's name, It should be his only aim to beggar ours, To spend their means should be his only pride: Which, with a sigh confirm'd, he's rid to London, Vowing a course,[380] that by his life so foul Men ne'er should join the hands without the soul. KATH. All is but grief, and I am arm'd for it. JOHN. We'll bring you on your way in hope thus strong: Time may at length make straight what yet is wrong. [_Exeunt_. ACT III. _An Inn_. _Enter_ ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY. WEN. He's our own, he's our own! Come, let's make use of his wealth, as the sun of ice: melt it, melt it. ILF. But art sure he will hold his meeting? WEN. As sure as I am now, and was dead drunk last night. ILF. Why then so sure will I be arrested by a couple of serjeants, and fall into one of the unlucky cranks about Cheapside, called Counters. BAR. Withal, I have provided Master Gripe the usurer, who upon the instant will be ready to step in, charge the serjeants to keep thee fast, and that now he will have his five hundred pounds, or thou shalt rot for it. WEN. When it follows, young Scarborow shall be bound for the one; then take up as much more. We share the one-half, and help him to be drunk with the other. ILF. Ha, ha, ha! _Enter_ SCARBOROW. BAR. Why dost laugh, Frank? ILF. To see that we and usurers live by the fall of young heirs, as swine by the dropping of acorns. But he's come. Where be these rogues: shall we have no 'tendance here? SCAR. Good day, gentlemen.