med of what? for deceiving of a wench! I have not blushed,
that have done't to a hundred of 'em?
In women's love he's wise that follow this,
Love one so long, till he[375] another kiss.
Where's the good knight here?

JOHN. O brother, you are come to make your eye
Sad mourner at a fatal tragedy.
Peruse this letter first, and then this corpse.

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.