hem with a kiss;
Or clock them, as hens chickens, with kind call,
Cover them under wing, and pardon all:
No jars must make two beds, no strife divide them,
Those betwixt whom a faith and troth is given,
Death only parts, since they are knit by heaven:
If such a husband you intend to be,
I am your Clare, and you are fit for me.

SCAR. By heaven--

CLARE. Advise, before you swear, let me remember you,[346]
Men never give their faith and promise marriage,
But heaven records their oath: if they prove true,
Heaven smiles for joy; if not, it weeps for you:
Unless your heart, then, with your words agree,
Yet let us part, and let us both be free.

SCAR. If ever man, in swearing love, swore true,
My words are like to his. Here comes your father.

_Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP, ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY, _and Butler_.

HAR. Now, Master Scarborrow.

SCAR. Prepar'd to ask, how you like that we have done:
Your daughter's made my wife, and I your son.

HAR. And both agreed so?

BOTH. We are, sir.

HAR. Then long may you live together, have store of sons!

ILF. 'Tis no matter who is the father. [_Aside_.]

HAR. But, son, here is a man of yours is come from London.

BUT. And brought you letters, sir.

SCAR. What news from London, butler?

BUT. The old news, sir. The ordinaries are full of cheaters, some
citizens are bankrupts, and many gentlemen beggars.

SCAR. Clare, here is an unwelcome pursuivant;
My lord and guardian writes to me, with speed
I must return to London.

HAR. And you being ward to him, son Scarborow,
And no ingrate,[347] it fits that you obey him.

SCAR.[348] It does, it does; for by an ancient law
We are born free heirs, but kept like slaves in awe.
Who are for London, gallants?

ILF. Switch and Spur, we will bear you company.

SCAR. Clare, I must leave thee--with what unwillingness,
Witness this dwelling kiss upon thy lip;
And though I must be absent from thine eye,
Be sure my heart doth in thy bosom lie.
Three years I am yet a ward, which time I'll pass,
Making thy faith my constant looking-glass,
Till when--

CLARE. Till when you please, where'er you live or lie,
Your love's here worn: you're present[349] in my eye.

_Enter_ LORD FALCONBRIDGE _and_ SIR WILLIAM SCARBOROW.

LORD. Sir William,
How old, say you, is your kinsman Scarborow?

WIL. Eighteen, my lord, next Pentecost.

LORD. Bethink you, good Sir William,
I reckon thereabout myself; so by that account
There's full