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 whore.
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 whore? a whore!
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 assured,--
_Better one sin than many be endured_:
My arms embracing, kisses, chastity,
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 God 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. God'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