A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Ix Part 100

_Enter_ CLOWN.

CLOWN. From London am I come, Though not with pipe and drum, Yet I bring matter In this poor paper Will make my young mistress, Delighting in kisses, Do as all maidens will, Hearing of such an ill, As to have lost The thing they wish'd most, A husband, a husband, A pretty sweet husband, Cry O, O, O, And alas, and at last Ho, ho, ho, As I do.

CLARE. Return'd so soon from London? what's the news?

CLOWN. O mistress, if ever you have seen Demoniseacleer, look into mine eyes: mine eyes are Severn, plain Severn; the Thames nor the river of Tweed are nothing to them: nay, all the rain that fell at Noah's flood had not the discretion that my eyes have: that drunk but up the whole world, and I have drowned all the way betwixt this and London.

CLARE. Thy news, good Robin.

CLOWN. My news, mistress? I'll tell you strange news. The dust upon London way being so great, that not a lord, gentleman, knight, or knave could travel, lest his eyes should be blown out: at last they all agreed to hire me to go before them, when I, looking but upon this letter, did with this water, this very water, lay the dust, as well as if it had rained from the beginning of April till the last of May.

CLARE. A letter from my Scarborow I give it thy mistress.

CLOWN. But, mistress--

CLARE. Prythee, begone, I would not have my father nor these gentlemen Be witness of the comfort it doth bring.

CLOWN. O, but mistress--

CLARE. Prythee, begone, With this and the glad news leave me alone.

[_Exit_ CLOWN.

THOM. 'Tis your turn, knight; take your liquor, know I am bountiful; I'll forgive any man anything that he owes me but his drink, and that I'll be paid for.

CLARE. Nay, gentlemen, the honesty of mirth Consists not in carousing with excess; My father hath more welcomes than in wine.

Pray you, no more.

THOM. Says my sister so? I'll be ruled by thee then. But do you hear? I hope hereafter you'll lend me some money. Now we are half-drunk, let's go to dinner. Come, knight.

[_Exeunt_.

_Manet_ CLARE.

CLARE. I am glad you're gone.

Shall I now open't? no, I'll kiss it first, Because this outside last did kiss his hand.

Within this fold (I'll call't a sacred sheet) Are writ black lines, where our white hearts shall meet.

Before I ope this door of my delight, Methinks I guess how kindly he doth write Of his true love to me; as chuck, sweetheart, I prythee do not think the time too long That keeps us from the sweets of marriage rites: And then he sets my name, and kisses it, Wis.h.i.+ng my lips his sheet to write upon; With like desire (methinks) as mine own thoughts Ask him now here for me to look upon; Yet at the last thinking his love too slack, Ere it arrive at my desired eyes, He hastens up his message with like speed, Even as I break this ope, wis.h.i.+ng to read.

O, what is here? mine eyes are not mine own; Sure, sure, they are not. [O eyes,]

Though you have been my lamps this sixteen years, [_Lets fall the letter_.

You do belie my Scarborow reading so; _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, G.o.d'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 G.o.d, 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 wh.o.r.e, 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 wh.o.r.e.

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 wh.o.r.e? a wh.o.r.e!

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.

CLARE. I come, I come; I pray, return; I come.

JOHN. I must not go without you.

CLARE. Be thou my usher, sooth, I'll follow you. [_Exit_.

He writes here to _forgive him, he is married_: False gentleman, I do forgive thee with my heart; Yet will I send an answer to thy letter, And in so short words thou shalt weep to read them, And here's my agent ready: _Forgive me, I am dead_.

'Tis writ, and I will act it. Be judge, you maids Have trusted the false promises of men: Be judge, you wives, the which have been enforc'd From the white sheets you lov'd to them ye loathed: Whether this axiom may not be a.s.sured,-- _Better one sin than many be endured_: My arms embracing, kisses, chast.i.ty, Were his possessions; and whilst I live, He doth but steal those pleasures he enjoys, Is an adulterer in his married arms, And never goes to his defiled bed, But G.o.d writes sin upon the tester's head.

I'll be a wife now, help to save his soul Though I have lost his body: give a slake To his iniquities, and with one sin, Done by this hand, and many done by him.

Farewell the world then, farewell the wedded joys Till this I have hop'd for from that gentleman!

Scarborow, forgive me; thus thou hast lost thy wife, Yet record, world,[371] though by an act too foul, A wife thus died to cleanse her husband's soul.

[_Enter_ SIR JOHN HARCOP.]

HAR. G.o.d's precious for his mercy, where's this wench?

Must all my friends and guests attend on you?

Where are you, minion?

CLARE. Scarborow, come, close mine eyes; for I am dead.

HAR. That sad voice was not hers, I hope: Who's this?

My daughter?

CLARE. Your daughter, That begs of you to see her buried, Prays Scarborow to forgive her: she is dead. [_Dies_.

HAR. Patience, good tears, and let my words have way!

Clare, my daughter! help, my servants, there!

Lift up thine eyes, and look upon thy father, They were not born to lose their light so soon: I did beget thee for my comforter, And not to be the author of my care.

Why speakest thou not? some help, my servants, there!

What hand hath made thee pale? or if thine own, What cause hadst thou, that wert thy father's joy, The treasure of his age, the cradle of his sleep, His all in all? I prythee, speak to me: Thou art not ripe for death; come back again.

Clare, my Clare, if death must needs have one, I am the fittest: prythee, let me go.