Showing posts with label Warrior. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Warrior. Show all posts

Saturday, 8 July 2017

Shelly and The Revolution : Paul Foot

'And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.

'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again - again - again -

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'

Written on the Occasion of the Massacre at Manchester

As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way -
He had a mask like Castlereagh -
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him.

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed the human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell:

And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

Last came Anarchy: he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw -

With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.

And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.

O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.

For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
'Thou art God, and Law, and King.

'We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -

Then all cried with one accord,
'Thou art King, and God and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!'

And Anarchy, the skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said:
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:

'My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!

He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me -
Misery, oh, Misery!'

Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses' feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale:

Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,

It grew - a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper's scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.

On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning's, lay;
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.

With step as soft as wind it passed
O'er the heads of men - so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked, - but all was empty air.

As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,
As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.

And the prostrate multitude
Looked - and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien:

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt - and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose

As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother's throe

Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood, -
As if her heart had cried aloud:

'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.

'What is Freedom? - ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well -
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.

'Tis to work and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants' use to dwell,

'So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.

'Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak, -
They are dying whilst I speak.

'Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye;

'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More that e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.

'Paper coin - that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.

'Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.

'And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew
Ride over your wives and you -
Blood is on the grass like dew.

'Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood - and wrong for wrong -
Do not thus when ye are strong.

'Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their wingèd quest
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air.

'Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed;
All things have a home but one -
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!

'This is slavery - savage men
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do -
But such ills they never knew.

'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand - tyrants would flee
Like a dream's dim imagery:

'Thou art not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
Echoing from the cave of Fame.

'For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home.

'Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude -
No - in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.

'To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.

'Thou art Justice - ne'er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England - thou
Shield'st alike the high and low.

'Thou art Wisdom - Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.

'Thou art Peace - never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.

'What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood?
It availed, Oh, Liberty,
To dim, but not extinguish thee.

'Thou art Love - the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,

'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
War for thy belovèd sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud - whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.

'Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.

'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou - let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.

'Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.

'Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.

'From the corners uttermost
Of the bounds of English coast;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan,

'From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old
Groan for pain, and weep for cold -

'From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares -

'Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound
Of a wind alive around

'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale -

'Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold -

'Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free -

'Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords,
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.

'Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
Troops of armed emblazonry.

Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses' heels.

'Let the fixèd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.

'Let the horsemen's scimitars
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.

'Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,

'And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armèd steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade
Through your phalanx undismayed.

'Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute,

'The old laws of England - they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo - Liberty!

'On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.

'And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, -
What they like, that let them do.

'With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.

'Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.

'Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand -
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.

'And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.

'And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.

'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again - again - again -

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'

Monday, 19 June 2017

Accession : Glory to You and Your House

Enough! I don't want to hear anything more about finances, mergers, or currency transactions!
The charge has been made that you have used money to bring down a Great House. 
What do you say to this, D'Ghor? 

 "A Klingon regards the honor of his or her family to be valuable, above all else. The family name can be besmirched by any member of the family, regardless of age or infirmity. A Klingon would sooner kill himself and his closer brother than live with a mark on the name of his ancestral lineage. The family is all, and a member of the family is responsible for the actions of his kin. The oldest son of a Klingon warrior may be called upon to give his life for the actions of his father." 

Never A Plan Like Yours To Study History So Wisely

Never Play, Letting Your Trousers Slip Half-Way

Neighbours Persuaded Lovely Yvonne To Shut Her Window

(Norman, Angevin, Plantagenet, Lancaster, York, Tudor, Stuart, Hanover, Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Windsor (or Wettin).

As the Houses of Lancaster and York were really branches of the House of Plantagenet, the first mnemonic can be simplified to 

No Plan To Study History Wisely

In addition, The House of Windsor was a branch of the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, which in turn is a branch of the House of Wettin, thus keeping the mnemonic.

Or, to go for the full package, the mnemonic can be extended to 

No Plan Like Yours To Study Our Saxon History So Wisely

Norman, Plantagenet, Lancaster, York, Tudor, Stuart, Orange, Stuart, Hanover, Saxe-Coburg, Windsor.

 "I started thinking about [...] Houses, and sort of, you know, the idea of bonding people to a Klingon House [....] The idea of bloodlines and families and sort of this Shakespearian idea of how the Klingon Empire ran – I was starting to, sort of, deal with that in this episode."

"We've never explored the hows and whys regarding the naming of Klingon Houses. The House of Mogh reference was probably something that Worf carried on out of respect for his deceased father. This might be the right of a son – to perpetuate a single name for the House instead of supplanting it with his own."

"I think I used the word 'House' in my draft [of 'The Bonding'], even though it's not in the episode." 

Ronald D. "Klingon-Guy" Moore
(The Bonding" audio commentary, TNG Season 3 Blu-ray) 

(On the Klingon homeworld, on a slightly shabby couch, Quark is hypo'd awake) 

What? What happened? Where am I? 

TUMEK: (ancient family retainer) 
You are on Qo'noS. 

Qo'noS? The Klingon homeworld. 

You are in the ancestral home of what used to be known as the House of Kozak. 

What's it called now? 

Kozak died without a male heir. The House no longer has a name. 

What about Kozak's brother, D'Ghor? 

That pahtk's name is not spoken in this house. 
He is no brother to Kozak. 
His family has been a sworn enemy of this House for 7 generations. 

But he came to DS9. He told me... 

What he told you were lies. He wanted you to say that Kozak had died in honourable combat so that no special dispensation would be granted. 

I don't understand. 

If Kozak had died in an accident and left no male heir, the Council might have decided that this was an unusual situation and granted special dispensation. 

That might have allowed Grilka to become Head of the Family even though she's a woman. 

But if Kozak died in an honourable fight, and was simply defeated by a better opponent, then no dispensation would have been granted, and without a male heir the House will fall. 

That hasn't happened yet, Tumek, and there is still time to prevent it from ever happening. 

(She offers a robe to Quark.

Put this on. 


Because if you do not, I will kill you. 

I beg you, consider what you do here, mistress. 

The decision is made. There is no other choice. 

(Quark struggles into the robe and Grilka takes his hand.) 

Go'Eveh lu cha wabeh. Mo ka re'Chos. 

Repeat my words Go'Eveh lu cha wabeh. To va re'Luk. 

Let me ask just one 

(Grilka puts a knife to Quark's throat

 Repeat the words. 

Go'Eveh lu cha wabeh to va re'Luk. 

Ghos ma'lu Kah! 

(Grilka kisses Quark, then spits.

It is done. 

What's done? 

The ceremony is complete. You are husband and wife.

Sunday, 11 June 2017

ASSASSINATION PREVENTION : The "Nobody Can Help Me Now" Moment

Corbyn is about as far away from this moment right now as it is possible to get....

For now.

'I live like a man who is dead already'

- Malcolm X

What does that  mean..?

As one of the most pure of heart, righteous and radical of Warriors, the point is made, the best amongst that elect group don't  die when you kill them.

They become more alive.

As a matter of fact, in that aspect, we find perhaps the best definition of "A Saint" that I have yet come across.

That's always been the classic Christian descriptive qualifier for Sainthood : 

"A Complete and Exemplary Life of Service and Devotion - such that The Good That These Men Do lives after them; The Evil is oft  Interred with Their Bones"

Malcolm did not fade away or die when his body was assassinate - with every passing year, he began growing stronger and stronger with every year.

And then they had to assassinate him all over again  to actually  make him die.

"Now, it doesn't matter, now. It really doesn't matter what happens now. I left Atlanta this morning, and as we got started on the plane, there were six of us. The pilot said over the public address system, "We are sorry for the delay, but we have Dr. Martin Luther King on the plane. And to be sure that all of the bags were checked, and to be sure that nothing would be wrong with on the plane, we had to check out everything carefully. And we've had the plane protected and guarded all night."

And then I got into Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?

Well, I don't know what will happen now. 
We've got some difficult days ahead. 
But it really doesn't matter with me now. 

Because I've been to The Mountaintop.

And I don't mind.

Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. 

But I'm not concerned about that now. 

I just want to do God's will. 

And He's allowed me to go up to The Mountain. 
And I've looked over. 

And I've seeeeen the Promised Land. 

I may not get there with you. 

But I want you to know tonight, that 

We, as a people, will get to The Promised Land!

Thank you very kindly, my friends. 

As I listened to Ralph Abernathy and his eloquent and generous introduction and then thought about myself, I wondered who he was talking about. 

It's always good to have your closest friend and associate to say something good about you. 

And Ralph Abernathy is the best friend that I have in the world. 

I'm delighted to see each of you here tonight in spite of a storm warning. You reveal that you are determined to go on anyhow.

Harry and Wills hadn't seen Diana for a MONTH before her death: She died a day before they were due to be reunited after trips and divorce kept them apart, reveal princes as they share new photos

By Vanessa Allen for the Daily Mail 23:01 23 Jul 2017, updated 03:33 24 Jul 2017

William and Harry had not seen their mother for almost a month before her death
The brothers have made the revelations in a TV documentary about Diana’s life
Pair lavished praise on their mother and her ability to ‘smother’ them with love
Princes William and Harry had not seen their mother for almost a month before her death, they have revealed in a documentary about Diana’s life.

Her divorce from Prince Charles meant the boys were ‘bounced’ between their parents, losing out on time with both of them, Harry said.

She died the day before they were due to be reunited. In the film, which airs tonight, the princes lavished praise on their mother and her ability to ‘smother’ them with love.

But Harry laid bare how the divorce, Diana’s high-profile charity work and her romance with Dodi Fayed meant he and William had not seen her for weeks before she died in Paris in August 1997.

Prince Harry and Prince William looking at a family photo album in Kensington Palace in the documentary,  Diana, Our Mother
The late princess holding Prince William while she was pregnant with Prince Harry 
Poignant: The princes pictured with their mother in France just six weeks before she died
In the documentary, an adult Harry told an anti-landmine campaigner: ‘You saw my mother more recently than I did.’

William, then 15, and Harry, 12, were at Balmoral with their father when Diana died. In candid interviews to mark the 20th anniversary of her death, the brothers revealed their regret that they cut short their final phone call with her, just hours before her death, because they wanted to go and play.

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'The things I'd have said to her... if I knew it was the last time we'd speak': William and Harry's agony over final phone call with Diana as they share unseen photos - including one of princess pregnant 
Prince Harry on how 'total kid' Diana had the motto 'be as naughty as you want... just don't get caught' as Wills jokes he 'fell down the stairs' when his mother booked Cindy Crawford and Naomi Campbell for his 12th birthday 
Brothers with a bond forged in tragedy - and humour: RICHARD KAY on the very special relationship that William and Harry share 
They said their grief was ‘still raw’ but also recalled treasured memories of their mother.

They released photographs from her personal album, including a picture of Diana holding a baby Harry, taken on the royal yacht Britannia by Prince William.

Prince William and Prince Harry watch as Diana's coffin is driven away from Westminster Abbey
This picture, taken by Prince William, shows the princess sitting and playing with Prince Harry on the Royal Yacht Britannia
Princess Diana sunbathing aboard the Jonikal Yacht moored in Portofino, Italy, in 1997
The Princess of Wales and Dodi Fayed, on a pontoon in the French Riviera resort of St. Tropez in August 1997

Prince Harry admitted his grief was ‘still raw’, but praised tonight’s film as ‘brilliant’
Prince Harry was almost reduced to tears by the new film about his mother.

He called producers after seeing it and said: ‘I nearly cried several times watching it back.’

The prince admitted his grief was ‘still raw’, but praised tonight’s film as ‘brilliant’.

Prince William said the decision to speak so openly about their mother was a one-off, adding: ‘We felt it was the right time to do it. We won’t be doing this again.’

Producers approached Kensington Palace more than a year ago, seeking permission for a programme to mark the 20th anniversary of Diana’s death. They were invited to meet the princes and discussed Diana’s legacy, but also their personal memories.

Producer Ashley Gething said: ‘William and Harry realised there is a new, younger generation who didn’t know about their mum … She did so much in raising awareness on taboo subjects such as HIV, mental health and homelessness. The princes want people to know all of that.’

William said he had found speaking about his mother ‘quite daunting’ at first but ‘cathartic’ and ‘quite a healing process’.

Lady Diana Spencer pictured looking at her future husband Prince Charles during a visit to the Cheshire Regiment at Tidworth in 1981
Prince William and Princess Diana Skiing Holiday in Lech, Austria, in 1991
Speaking of the divorce, Harry said: ‘The two of us were bouncing between the two of them and we never saw our mother enough or we never saw our father enough.

‘There was a lot of travelling and a lot of fights on the backseat with my brother, which I would win. I don’t pretend we’re the only people to have to deal with that. But it was an interesting way of growing up.’

The supermodel surprise for William 

Fun-loving Princess Diana arranged for three supermodels to pay a surprise visit to Prince William, he revealed.

The future king came home from school to find Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell and Christy Turlington waiting for him at Kensington Palace.

It was typical of his mother’s ‘cheeky sense of humour’ and love of mischief, William said.

‘She organised, when I came home from school, to have Cindy Crawford, Christy Turlington and Naomi Campbell waiting at the top of the stairs. I was probably a 12 or 13-year-old boy who had posters of them on his wall and I went bright red and didn’t quite know what to say and sort of fumbled, and I think pretty much fell down the stairs. I was completely and utterly awestruck.’

The prince added that it was ‘a very funny memory that’s lived with me forever about her – loving, embarrassing and being the joker’.

Diana also had a serious side, first taking William to a homeless shelter when he was 12.

William and Harry spent ten days with their mother and Fayed, the son of then-Harrods owner Mohamed Al-Fayed, at his villa in the South of France. But while they returned to London and then Balmoral, she joined Mr Fayed on his yacht around the Mediterranean, and went to the Greek islands with a friend. She also travelled to Bosnia to campaign against landmines.

Diana remained in frequent phone contact with her sons, but they told how their final conversation lasted just five minutes.

Harry said: ‘I never enjoyed speaking to my parents on the phone. We spent far too much time on the phone rather than speaking to each other. I can’t really remember what I said but I regret how short the phone call was. I’ll have to deal with that for the rest of my life. Not knowing that was the last time I was going to speak to my mum, how differently that conversation would have panned out if I’d had even the slightest inkling.’

William said the call interrupted a game with their cousins Zara and Peter Phillips, and said he and Harry were in a ‘desperate rush to say goodbye’ so they could go back to playing.

He said: ‘If I’d known what was going to happen I wouldn’t have been so blasé about it. But that phone call sticks in my mind, quite heavily.’

William said her death was ‘utterly devastating’ and he and Harry struggled to understand their feelings or speak to each other about their grief. They praised Diana as ‘the best mother ever’ who left them with a personal legacy of her love, as well as her global charitable impact.

Diana, Our Mother is on ITV tonight at 9pm.

The Princess pictured with her sons in 1985. They praised Diana as ‘the best mother ever’ who left them with a personal legacy of her love
Harry on Diana’s hugs  

'She’d engulf you and squeeze you as tight as possible. I miss that feeling.' 

William on her loving nature  

'She was extremely good at showing what we meant to her, how important it was to feel.' 

William on his wedding day 

'Not many days go by that I don’t think of her. I did really feel she was there … I very much felt she was there for me.'  

Harry on her sense of fun 

'She was a total kid through and through. I can hear her crazy laugh in my head.'

... and her sense of mischief 

'One of her mottos was ‘be as naughty as you want, just don’t get caught’. She was one of the naughtiest parents. She would smuggle sweets in our socks.'

Monday, 5 June 2017

The Miseries Of Enforced Marriage


The Miseries Of Enforced Marriage was written in 1607 by the playwright George Wilkins. Little is known of Wilkins today except that he is believed to have written the first nine scenes of Pericles(1607/8), of which William Shakespeare wrote the remaining thirteen. 

Unlike Pericles, a tale of families fragmented by shipwreck and mistaken death, The Miseries Of Enforced Marriage adopts a more familiar theme for its central focus, this being the highs and lows of matrimony in the Jacobean age. 

The play's source comes from a true story that is also dramatised in A Yorkshire Tragedy, a play that was probably written by Thomas Middleton in 1605. The story is that of Walter Caverley, a man who had to succumb to the wishes of his guardian in choosing whom he married. Walter was imprisoned for his debts and on his release he killed his two eldest sons, injured his wife and set out to kill the youngest son who was away at nurse. His stated motive was the suspected infidelity of his wife and illegitimacy of her children. When Walter was put on trial he refused to make any plea and was thus pressed to death on August fifth 1605. In refusing to speak, Walter enabled his property to be transmitted to his remaining son. This is a sign of Walter’s penitence and provides the story with a double-ending typical of the domestic tragedy.

Miseries differs from A Yorkshire Tragedy and takes the comic rather than the tragic form. Miseries is concerned with the theme of the dangers of enforced marriage rather than the murders that occurred.Where the latter play takes the murders as its focus, the former replaces the murders with a reconciliation of the family members. 

The play begins in Yorkshire with Sir Francis Ilford, Wentloe and Bartley’s visit to Sir John Harcop’s house. They have come to see their friend Scarborrow who is there to discuss the possibility of his marrying Clare, Sir John Harcop’s daughter. The meeting prompts a comic exchange on the topic of marriage in which Ilford displays a great distaste for all that it upholds:

Wag, and you will be a lover for but three days, you will be heartless, sleepless, witless, mad, wretched, miserable, and indeed, a stark fool. And by that time, you will have been married for only three weeks. (I i 114-16)

The discussion gives an amusing yet pessimistic perception of marriage, and one that will come to be shown as quite apt as the play progresses. The words of Sir Francis Ilford fail to impact upon young master Scarborrow who, at this point, maintains a faithful and romantic attitude regarding the matter:

I consider their sex more divinely,
Being maids, I think they are angels, and being wives,
Thy are sovereigns, cordials that preserve our lives,
They are like our hands that feed us, this is clear,
They renew man, as spring renews the year. (I i 112-26) 

Scarborrow’s youthful and untainted outlook is juxtaposed with the cynical words of Sir Francis Ilford. Scarborrow is the character that develops the most considerably during the course of the play as events out of the young man’s control act to change his life and sour his personality.

When Scarborrow meets Sir John’s daughter Clare, she proves to be a witty and confident young woman. Scarborrow proclaims his love to her and she retorts:

O pray you, do not so, for then you stray from the steps of gentility; the fashion among them is to marry first, and love after by leisure. (I ii 32-33)

The sarcastic attitude expressed by Clare is abandoned when Scarborrow asserts that he is speaking in earnest. The couple agree to marry and share their idealistic values about what it must mean to them to be husband and wife. The joining promises to be a happy one, forged upon a basis of honesty and understanding.

This potentially blissful union is thwarted when Scarborrow is called to London by his uncle, Sir William, and his guardian, Lord Faulconbridge, to whom he is a ward. Lord Faulconbridge insists that the worthy Scarborrow will marry his niece, Katherine. Scarborrow proclaims his grief at the event: 'World, now you see what it is to be a ward' (I IV 118).

In this sentence, Scarborrow evokes the central message that the play conveys. The scene projects the unhappy predicament of the young lover who is forced to act against his will and marry the woman who that is deemed a desirable choice in the eyes of the guardian. This, of course, was a much more dominant issue in the Renaissance era and one that is imbued in much of the period’s literature. Until 1646, the heirs to lands held by knight service and other military tenures whose fathers died during their minority passed to the wardship of the lords of the lands. The minority lasted until the age of twenty-one in the case of boys and sixteen in that of girls. Wardship gave the guardian the right to take the profits of the portion of the heir's lands that came under their control, and more importantly, to decide whom he should marry.

Scarborrow receives a letter from John Harcop instructing him to take the clown for his entertainment. An article written by Clare that reminds Scarborrow of the wrong he has done her accompanies the letter:

Here she remembers me to keep in mind
My promised faith to her which I have broken.
Here she remembers me I am a man,
Black whore with perjury, whose sinful breast, 
Is character like those cursed of the blessed. (II i 99-104)

Scarborrow’s referring to himself as a whore is highly unusual. It appears that he is being feminised, and this is further reinforced by Ilford’s reply:

How now my young bully, like a young wench forty weeks after the loss of her maiden head, crying out. (II i 105-106)

Ilford compares Scarborrow to a woman in labour. It is possible that it is the intention of the playwright to portray Scarborrow as having been feminised by his failure to exert power. Scarborrow is denied control and left as a passive bystander while others dictate his future. Scarborrow is drawn against the more conventionally masculine Sir Francis Ilford, a character who cannot understand Scarborrow’s emotional attachment to Clare and states:

Shamed of what, for deceiving a wench? I had not blushed,that had don’t to a hundred of them. (II IV 4)

Throughout the play, the distinction is drawn between those that live their lives merrily in the bawdy houses and brothels and those that abstain from such pastimes. Ilford acts raucously in the public house and Scarborrow attempts to calm the situation down, saying 'You need no wine, I pray you, be more mild' (III i 73).

It would seem that Scarborrow is not acting as Ilford sees fit and is therefore catechised and mocked. Scarborrow’s amiable temperament leaves him open to comparisons with women. His failure to behave raucously causes him to be viewed as less of a male and more of a female; the sex who, in their purer form (as opposed to the whores that work in the bawdy houses), are seen by the male characters here present to enforce a suspension of merriment.

Scarborrow is true to his character and replies to the woman that he has been forced to wrong to plead her forgiveness. Tragedy ensues when Clare receives the news and takes her own life; this is a misery that Scarborrow feared would follow:

Fair pity me, because I am enforced,
For I have heard those matches have cost blood,
Where love is once begun and then withstood. (I v 37-40)

This event begins a downward spiral for Scarborrow who vows at Clare’s grave that he will not have any more to do with Katherine, his new wife. Scarborrow seeks solace in the company of his bawdy acquaintances at the public house:

I know this company, they’re custom vile,
Hated, abhorred of good men, yet like a child
By reason’s rule instructed how to know
Evil from good, I to the worse go. (III i 90-94)

Scarborrow foresees his demise taking place yet abandons himself to remain a victim to it.

Alongside the theme of marriage and its difficulties is that of wealth. A certain social critique of the period is indicated with the arrival of Scarborrow’s brothers, Thomas and John, at Sir John Harcop’s house. Thomas appeals for a loan from Sir John as soon as he has met him. This is an indicator of the prevailing way in which marriage was utilised in the era: as a means of gaining money and status. It also gives us an insight in to the predicament of younger brothers of the age.

Money causes much of the play's conflict. When Ilford, Wentloe and Bartley hear of Scarborrow’s grieving they plan to take the opportunity to ‘make use of his wealth’ (III i 5). Scarborrow is easily manipulated; he pays off Sir Francis Ilford's debts to Mr Grype, saving him from arrest, and fritters his wealth away on the gentlemen resident at the inn.

When Scarborrow’s brothers find him, they see that he has been spending their share of their father’s fortunes and cite Ilford as the culprit, calling him a ‘slave that feeds upon my brother like a fly, poisoning where you do suck’ (III ii 96-98). Scarborrow will not believe his brothers’ words and a fight ensues. Scarborrow’s denying his brothers the money they require leads to them stealing three hundred pounds from Sir John Harcop, an act that nearly causes them to face execution. A rift in the family is created. The Scarborrows' sister also suffers the consequences; the butler contrives a plan to have her wed Sir Francis Ilford so that she may share his inheritance, but this act turns sour when Ilford discovers the true identity of the girl- she is the ‘beggarly sister to the more beggarly Scarborrow’ (IV iii 89-90). Ilford renounces her, leaving her in a state of sorrow and despair.

Scarborrow’s personal condition also worsens and, upon hearing from the butler that he has two sons born, he attacks his loyal servant and wishes a plague on his children and vengeance on his wife. Despite this behaviour, however, Scarborrow continues to be represented in a sympathetic fashion. At the commencement of his drunken rants, Scarborrow compares himself to Don Quixote: 'Now I am armed to fight with a windmill' (III IV 1).

Cervantes' characterisation of Don Quixote in 1605 portrayed a figure of fun for whom sympathy was nevertheless evoked because his heart was in the right place even if his judgement was unreliable. This too can be said of Scarborrow; he is a naturally well-meaning character who has been the victim of unfortunate circumstances that he could not be in command of. Scarborrow cannot accept that which has occurred and instead lashes out at everyone and isolates himself from those that care for him. Lord Faulconbridge suggests the sadly common incidence of such destruction in men:

Being in the pit where many do fall in,
We will both comfort him, and counsel him. (III IV 59-60)

The play does not act to criticise Scarborrow, but rather provokes understanding and compassion for those that are dealt an unfortunate hand and refuse to accept it. It examines the possible roots from which hatred and anger can grow in a man.

An important secondary character that experiences a significant amount of the Scarborrows' ordeal is the loyal butler to the Scarborrow family. The butler is a character comparable to Adam in Shakespeare's As You Like It, the former servant of Sir Rowland De Bois who is cruelly dismissed by Oliver upon his death. Adam is the loyal listener and intervenes when the two brothers Oliver and Orlando fight, pleading for them to stop in the name of their father. 

Miseries’ butler acts as Wilkins' equivalent to Shakespeare's Adam, he is a loyal servant who also tries to stop the brothers from feuding and who is also cruelly dismissed. He is the brain behind both the theft carried out by the younger Scarborrow brothers upon Sir John Harcop and the tricking of Sir Francis Ilford into taking the Scarborrows' sister for a wife. The latter plan succeeds in bringing Sir Francis Ilford his comeuppance. He has done the Scarborrows wrong in his manipulation of the eldest brother into dispersing of their wealth in the bawdy houses. It is the butler, too, that pushes Scarborrow and his family to be reunited in the final scene. He recognises the misdemeanours that have occurred and acknowledges that he has been a part of them, but holds most in disdain those that enforced the marriage of Scarborrow and Katherine:

I am sure they are greater sinners
That made this match, and were unhappy men,
For they caused all, and may heaven pardon them. (V iii 10-12)

The play’s theme is raised once more, the victim being clearly pointed out as he who has suffered because of the rulings of another. The message is conveyed right up until the final scene when Scarborrow does not heed the doctor’s words of warning but condemns him for the part he played in the joining of himself and Katherine in marriage.

The play’s end sees Scarborrow distanced from all whom he should love, his brothers and sister and his wife and children:

Hark how their words like bullets shoot me through
And tell me I have undone them; this side might say,
"We are in want, and you are the cause of it";
This points at me, bear shame into thy house;
This tongue says nothing, but her looks do tell,
She’s married but as those that live in hell;
Whereby all eyes are but misfortunes’ pipe,
Filled full of woe by me. This feels the stripe. (V IV 61-8)

Although Scarborrow is beginning to acknowledge the wrong he has done, the audience is given no final answer as to what will become of him. Katherine speaks the last words:

We kneel, forget, and say if you but love us,
You gave us grace for future. (V IV 75-6) 

The main character is realising the error of his ways and those that are close to him are willing to forgive him his ill doings. We are left unsure of whether or not Scarborrow will become a true father to his children and husband to his wife; no certainties are given. The play's end resembles that of Shakespeare's Measure For Measure (1603), in which the final outcome is never clearly decided: the Duke reveals his true identity and proposes to Isabella but she never gives him an answer and the plays' ending is left ambiguous. In this way, the plays refuse to take a moral standpoint in favour of either side. Measure For Measure does not state that Isabella should or should not forget her pledge to God and leave the nunnery to marry the Duke and Miseries does not imply that Scarborrow will keep the vows that he made to Katherine. What has been portrayed in Miseries is the journey of an honourable man from good to evil and back again, showing how the ramifications of each character's actions alter the lives of the characters surrounding them.

The original text of The Miseries of Enforced Marriage needed much adjustment in terms of inaccuracies and inconsistencies, for example the common use of the letter "v" for "u" and vice versa. The spellings of many words, including proper nouns, varied from line to line. The structure had to be modernised and set out in the style of verse where needed and much of the punctuation required modification. 

Difficulties that arose in the editing of this play were often related to the playwright’s having written down one thing when he must have meant another or, "compositor’s". For example, "fare", which I have altered to read "faith" (I v 38); most likely the desired word.

There are notable instances of words and phrases that appear and are no longer in usage; at times one can make an effort to guess the sentiment that the playwright intended to convey, but at others one is left bewildered, as with a simile used by Sir Francis Ilford: 'A rogue that has fed upon me and the fruit of my wit like pollen from a panther’s chippings' (II i 45). The meaning of this phrase has been lost, though 'panther' may be a mistake for 'anther'. Other utterances are easier to fathom the meaning of; for example, Ilford calls Wentloe a ‘chittiface’ in response to Wentloe giving him instructions. It is probably a safe guess to suggest that this serves as some sort of insult of the Renaissance period.

The final piece of editing that was required was to divide the play into acts and scenes, adapting it from its original composition of mostly continuous prose. The stage directions were sufficiently clear that determining when these breaks should be proved a straightforward task.

It has proven very rewarding to be able to look back at the irregular text that comprised the original version of The Miseries Of Enforced Marriage and compare it to the final, modernised version that reads clearly in the accepted structure for modern plays. The task of editing a Renaissance play was formerly one that was unfamiliar to me. It has been challenging and has demanded particularly focused attention to detail and the allotment of much time and concentration, all of which has been made worthwhile by the sense of achievement gained from the final result.




MASTER SCARBORROW, a young romantic.


SIR FRANCIS ILFORD} acquaintances of young master Scarborrow.



CLARE, John Harcop's daughter.

SIR WILLIAM SCARBORROW, Master Scarborrow's uncle.

LORD FAULCONBRIDGE, a good friend of Sir William Scarborrow.

DOCTOR BAXTER, chancellor at Oxford and friend to Lord Faulconbridge.

KATHERINE, Lord Faulconbridge's niece.

THOMAS SCARBORROW, Master Scarborrow's fiery and frugal younger brother.

JOHN SCARBORROW, Master Scarborrow's sensitive younger brother, a scholar at Oxford.


BUTLER, trusted ally to many of the other characters.

CLOWN, servant to Sir John Harcop.

MR GRIPPE, the usurer.







Act I 

Scene I. 

At the Yorkshire home of Sir John Harcop.

Enter Sir Francis Ilford, Wentloe, and Bartley.


But Frank, Frank, now that we are come to the house, what shall we make to be our



Tut, let us be impudent enough, and good enough.


We have no acquaintance here but young Scarborrow.


How no acquaintance? Angels guard me from thy company. I tell thee, Wentloe, you are

not worthy to wear gilt spurs, clean linen, nor good clothes.


Why for God's sake?


By this hand, you are not a man fit to table at an Ordinary, keep Knights company

at bawdy houses, nor beggar thy tailor.


Why then am I free from cheaters, clear from the pox, and escaped curses?


Why, do you think there is any Christian in the world?


Ay and Jews too, brokers, puritans, and sergeants.


Or do you mean to beg after charity that goes in a cold suit already, that you say you have

no acquaintance here? I tell you, Wentloe, you can live on this side of the world: feed

well, drink tobacco, and be honoured into the presence, but you must be acquainted with

all sorts of men, ay and so far in too, 'til they desire to be more acquainted with you.


True, and then you shall be accounted a gallant of good credit.

Enter Clown.


But stay, here is a scrape-trencher arrived. How now bluebottle, are you of the house?


I have heard of many black Jacks, Sir, but never of a blue bottle.


Well Sir, are you of the house?


No Sir, I am twenty yards without, and the house stands without me.


Pray tell me who owns this building.


He that dwells in it, Sir.


Who dwells in it then?


He that owns it.


What's his name?


I was not his Godfather.


Does Master Scarborrow live here?


I'll give you a rhyme for that Sir,

Sick men may lie, and dead men in their graves,

Few else do lie in bed at noon, but drunkards, punks, and knaves.


What am I the better for thy answer?


What am I the better for thy question?


Why nothing.


Why then of nothing comes nothing.

Enter Scarborrow.


God's blood! This is a philosophical fool.


Then I that am a fool by art am better then you that are fools by nature.

Exit Clown


Gentlemen, welcome to Yorkshire.


And well encountered my little villain of fifteen hundred years. God's foot! What brings

thee here to this barren soil of the North, when thy honest friends miss thee in London?




Faith, gallants, it is the country where my father lived, where first I saw the light, and

where I am loved.


Loved, just as courtiers love usurers,

and that is just as long as they lend them money. Now dare I lay...


None of thy land good Knight, for that is laid to mortgage already.


I dare lay with any man that will take me up.


Who list to have a lubberly load?


Sirrah Wag. That rogue was son and heir to Anthony Nowe and Blind Moon. And he

must be a scurvy musician that has two fiddlers for his fathers. But tell me in faith, are

you not, no I know you are, called down into the country here, by some hoary

Knight or other, who knowing that you are a young gentleman of good parts, and a great

living, has desired to see some pitiful piece of his workmanship, a daughter I mean, is it

not so?


About some such preferment I came down.


Preferment: a good word. And when do you commence into the cuckold's

order, the preferment you speak of, when shall we have gloves, when, when?


Faith gallants, I have only been a guest here since last night.


Why, and that is time enough to make up a dozen marriages, as marriages are made up

nowadays. For look you Sir, the father according to the fashion, being sure you have a

good living, and without encumbrance, comes to you thus: ---takes you by the hand thus:

---wipes his long beard thus: ---or turns his moustache thus: ---Walks some turn or two

thus: ---to show his comely gravity thus: ---And having washed his foul mouth thus: ---it

last breaks out thus. ---


O God! Let us hear more of this!


"Master Scarborrow, you are a young gentleman, I knew thy father well, and he was my

worshipful good neighbor, for our domains lay near together". Then Sir, ---you and I

must be of more near acquaintance". ---At which, you must make an eruption thus: ---

"O God (sweet Sir) ---"


The Knight would have made an excellent Zany, in an Italian Comedy.


Then he goes forward thus: "Sir, myself I am Lord of some thousand years, a widower. I

have a couple of young gentlewomen as my daughters, a thousand years will do well

divided among them. Ha, will it not Master Scarborrow?" ---At which you out of thy

education must reply thus: "The portion will deserve them worthy husbands", upon

which tinder he soon takes fire and swears you are the man his hopes shot at, and one of

them shall be thine.


If I did not like her, should he swear to a duel, I would make him forsworn.


Then putting you and the young pugs to in a close room together.


If he should lie with her there, is not the father partly the bawd?


Where the young puppet, having had the lesson before from the old fox, gives the son

half a dozen warm kisses, which after her father's oaths, makes such an impression in

you, that you shout, "by Jesus Mistress, I love you!" When she has the wit to ask, ‘But

Sir, will you marry me?’ And you reply in thy Cox-sparrow-humour, "ay (before God),

as I am a gentleman I will". Upon which the father overhears and leaps in, takes you at

thy word, swears he is glad to see this. That he will have you contracted straight away,

and for this purpose will make a priest of him.

Thus in one hour, from a quiet life,

You are sworn in debt, and troubled with a wife.


But can they love one another so soon?


O, it is no matter now- ideas of love. It is well that they can but make shift to lie together.


But will this father do this still, if he knows that the gallant visits some two or three

bawdy housesin a morning?


O the sooner, for with that and the land together, tell the old lad, he will know the better

how to deal with his daughter.

The wise and ancient fathers know this rule,

Should both wed maids, the child would be a fool.

Come wag, if you have gone no further then into the ordinary fashion: meet, see, and

kiss, then give over. Marry not a wife to have a hundred plagues for one pleasure, let's go

to London, there's variety, and a change of pasture makes fat calves.


But change of women bawd knaves, Sir Knight.


Wag, and you will be a lover for but three days, you will be heartless, sleepless, witless,

mad, wretched, miserable, and indeed, a stark fool. And by that time, you will have been

married for only three weeks. If you should wed a Cynthia, rara avis,you would be a

monstrous man. A cuckold, a cuckold.


And why is a cuckold monstrous, Knight?


Why, because a man is made a beast by being married. Take example from the Moon, as

soon as she is delivered of her great belly, does she not point at the world with a pair of

horns, as if to say, "married men, some of you are cuckolds".


I consider their sex more divinely,

Being maids, I think they are angels, and being wives,

They are sovereigns, cordials that preserve our lives,

They are like our hands that feed us, this is clear,

They renew man, as spring renews the year.


There's never a wanton wench that hears you, but thinks you a coxcomb for saying so.

Marry none of them. If you will have their true characters, I'll give it to you: women are

the purgatory of men's purses, the paradise of their bodies, and the hell of their minds,

marry none of them. Women are in churches: saints, abroad: angels, at home: devils. The

married men I know, know this, marry none of them.


Men that traduce by custom, show sharp wit

Only in speaking ill, and practise it,

Against the best of creatures, divine women

Who are God's agents here, and the heavenly eye

By which this orb has her maturity.

Beauty in women, get the world with child,

Without whom, she was barren, faint, and wild.

They are the stems, on which angels do grow,

From which virtue is stilled, and arts do flow.

Enter Sir John Harcop and his daughter Clare.


Let them be what flowers they will, and they were roses, I will pluck none of them for

pricking my fingers. But soft, here comes a voiderfor us, and as I do what I can, as long

as the world lasts, there will be cuckolds in it. Do you hear child, here's one, come to

blend you together: he has brought you a kneading-

tub, if you will take her at his hands,

Though you have Argus’ eyes, be sure of this,

Women have sworn with more than one to kiss.


Nay, no parting, gentlemen:



God's foot! Does he make punks of us that he hems already?


Gallants, know old John Harcop keeps a wine cellar,

Has travelled, been at court, known fashions,

And unto all bears habit like thy selves,

The shapes of gentlemen and men of sort,

I have a health to give them erethey part.


Health Knight, not as drunkards give their health I hope: to go together by the ears when

they have done?


My health is welcome: welcome gentlemen.


Are we welcome Knight, in faith?


Welcome in faith Sir.


Pray tell me you have not been a whoremaster.


In youth I swilled my fill at Venus's cup,

Instead of full draughts now I am fain to sup.


Why then you are a man fit for my company:

Do you hear that he is a good fellow of our stamp,

Make much of him father.


Manet Scarborrow and Clare.

Act I

Scene II


The father, and the gallants have left me here with a gentlewoman, and if I know what to

say to her I am a villain. Heaven grant her life has borrowed so much impudence of her

sex, but to speak to me first. For by this hand, I have not so much steel of immodesty in

my face, to parle to a wench without blushing. I'll walk by her, in hope she can open her

teeth.---Not a word?---Is it not strange a man should be in a woman's company all this

while and not hear her tongue?---I'll go further.---God of his goodness, not a syllable. I

think if I should take up her clothes too, she would say nothing to me. ---With what

words true does a man begin to woo? Gentlewomen pray you, what is the time?


Truth Sir, carrying no watch about me but my eyes, I answer you, I cannot tell.


And if you cannot tell, beauty, I take the adagefor my reply. You are naught to keep



Yet I am big enough to keep myself.


Pray tell me, are you not a woman?


I know not that either, 'til I am better acquainted with a man.


And how would you be acquainted with a man?


To distinguish betwixt himself and myself.


Why, I am a man?


That's more than I know Sir.


To approve I am no less, thus I kiss you.


And by that proof I am a man too, for I have kissed you.


Pray tell me, can you love?


O Lord Sir, three or four things! I love my meat, choice of suitors, clothes in the fashion,

and, like a right woman, I love to have my will.


What do you think of me for a husband?


Let me first know, what you think of me for a wife?


Truth I think you are a proper gentlewoman.


Do you but think so?


Nay I see you are a very perfect proper gentlewoman.


It is great pity then, I should be alone without a proper man.


Thy father says I shall marry you.


And I say God forbid Sir; I am a great deal too young.


I love you by my truth.


O pray you, do not so, for then you stray from the steps of gentility; the fashion among

them is to marry first, and love after by leisure.


That I do love you, here by heaven I swear, and call it as a witness to this kiss.


You will not enforce me I hope, Sir?


Make me this woman's husband. You are my Clare,

Accept my heart, and prove as chaste, as fair.


O God, you are too hot in thy gifts; should I accept them, we should have you plead

nonage some half a year hence, sue for reversal, and say the deed was done under age.


Pray, do not jest.


No (God is my record) I speak in earnest, and desire to know,

Whether you mean to marry me, yes or no.


This hand thus takes you as my loving wife.


For better, for worse.


Ay, till death us depart love.


Why then I thank you Sir, and now I am like to have that which I long looked for, a


How soon from our own tongues is the word said,

Captives our maiden-freedom to a head.


Clare, you are now mine, and I must let you know

What every wife does to her husband owe.

To be a wife is to be dedicate, not to a youthful course,

Wild, and unsteady, but to the soul of virtue and obedience,

Studying to please, and never to offend.

Wives have two eyes created, not like birds,

To roam about at pleasure, but for two sentinels,

To watch their husband's safety as their own.

Two hands, one to feed him, the other herself.

Two feet, and one of them is their husband's.

They have two of everything, only of one,

Their chastity that should be his alone.

Their very thoughts they cannot term them one,

Maids being once made wives, can call nothing rightly their own,

They are their husbands' all. If such a wife you can prepare to be,

Clare, I am thine, and you are fit for me.


We being thus subdued, pray you know then,

As women owe a duty, so do men.

Men must be like the branch and bark to trees,

Which does defend them from tempestuous rage,

Clothe them in winter, tender them in age,

Or as ewes love unto their youngsters' lives,

such should be husbands' custom to their wives.

If it appears to them that husband or wife has gone amiss,

They only must rebuke them with a kiss,

Or clock them, as hen's chickens, with kind call,

Cover them under their wing, and pardon all.

No quarrels must make two beds, no strife denied them.

Those betwixt whom a faith and truth is given,

Death only parts, since they are knit by heaven.

If such a husband you intend to be,

I am thy Clare, and you are fit for me.


By heaven.


Advise. Before you swear let me remind you,

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 thy heart, then, with thy words agree,

Yet let us part, and let us both be free.


If ever man in swearing love, swore true,

My words are like to his. Here comes thy father.

Act I

Scene III

Enter Sir John Harcop, Ilford, Wentloe, Bartley, and Butler.


Now Master Scarborrow.


Prepared to ask how you like that we have done: thy daughter's made my wife, and I thy



And both agreed so?

Scarborrow and Clare.

We are, Sir.


Then long may you live together, have scores of sons.


'Tis no matter who is the father.


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


And brought you letters, Sir.


What news from London, butler?


The old news, Sir; the ordinaries are full, some citizens are bankrupts, and many

gentlemen beggars.


Clare, here is an unwelcome pursuant.

My Lord and guardian writes to me with speed,

I must return to London.


And you being wardto him son Scarborrow,

And know him great, it fits that you obey him.


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.


Switch and spur we will bear you company.



Clare, I must leave you, with such unwillingness-

Witness this dwelling kiss upon thy lip-

And though I must be absent from thy eye,

Be sure my heart does in thy bosom lie.

Three years I am yet a ward, which time I'll pass,

Making thy faith my constant looking glass. 'Til when...


'Till when you please, wherever you live or lie,

Thy love's here worn, thy presence in my eye.


Act I

Scene IV

Enter Lord Faulconbridge, and Sir William Scarborrow.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

How old, say you, is thy kinsman, Scarborrow?

Sir William. 

Eighteen, my Lord, next Pentecost.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Bethink you, good Sir William,

I reckon thereabout myself, so by that account,

There's full three winters yet he must attend,

Under our awe, before he sues his livery,

Is it not so?

Sir William. 

Not a day less, my Lord.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Sir William, you are his uncle, and I must speak.

That I am his guardian, would I had a son

Might merit commendations even with him.

I'll tell you what he is, he is a youth,

A noble branch, increasing in blessed fruit,

Where caterpillar vice dare not to touch.

He is himself with so much gravity,

Praise cannot praise him with hyperbole.

He is one whom olders look upon, as one does a book,

Wherein are printed noble sentences

For them to rule their lives by. Indeed he is one that

All emulate his virtues, hate him none.

Sir William.

His friends are proud to hear this good of him.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

And yet, Sir William, being as he is,

Young, and unsettled, though of virtuous thoughts

By genuine disposition, yet our eyes

See daily precedents, hopeful gentlemen,

Being trusted in the world with their own will,

Divert the good is looked from them to ill,

Make their old names forgot, or not worth note.

With company they keep such revelling

With panders, parasites, prodigies of knaves,

That they sell all, even their old fathers' graves.

Which to prevent, we'll match him to a wife;

Marriage restrains the scope of single life.

Sir William.

My Lord speaks like a father for my kinsman.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

And I have found him one of noble parentage,

A niece of mine. I have broke with her,

Know this much of her mind, what for my pleasure

As also for the good appears in him,

She is pleased of all that's hers to make him King.

Sir William. 

Our name is blessed in such an honoured marriage

Enter Doctor Baxter.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Also I have appointed Doctor Baxter,

Chancellor of Oxford, to attend me here,

And see he is come. Good Master Doctor.


My honourable Lord.

Sir William Scarborrow 

I have possessed you with this business, Master Doctor


To see the contract betwixt thy honoured niece and Master Scarborrow.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

It is so, and I did look for him by this.


I saw him leave his horse as I came up.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

So, so.

Then he will be here forthwith. You, Master Baxter,

Go usher hither straight young Katherine.

Sir William here and I will keep this room till you return.

Enter Scarborrow


My honourable Lord.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

It is well done Scarborrow.


Kind uncle.

Sir William. 

Thanks, my good nephew.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

You have been welcome in thy county Yorkshire?


The time that I spent there, my Lord, was merry.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

It was well, 'twas very well, and in thy absence,

Thy uncle here and I have been thinking

What gift betwixt us we might bestow on you,

That to thy house large dignity might bring,

With fair increase, as from a crystal spring.

Enter Doctor and Katherine.


My name is bound to thy beneficence,

Thy hands have been to me like bounty's purse,

Never shut up, thyself my foster-nurse.

Nothing can from thy honour come prove me so rude,

But I'll accept to shun ingratitude.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

We accept thy promise; now return this,

A virtuous wife, accept her with a kiss.


My honourable Lord.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Fear not to take her man, she will fear neither.

Do what you can being both a-bed together.


O but my Lord.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

But me a dog of wax, come kiss, and agree,

Thy friends have thought it fit, and it must be.


I have no hands to take her to my wife.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

How, saucebox?


O pardon me, my Lord; the unripeness of my years,

Too green for government, is old in fear

To undertake that charge.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Sir, Sir, ay and Sir knave, then here is a mellowed experience knows how to teach you.


O God.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

O Jack.

How. Both our cares, thy uncle and myself,

Sought, studied, found out, and for thy good,

A maid, a niece of mine, both fair and chaste.

And must we stand at thy discretion?


O good my Lord,

Had I two souls, then might I have two wives.

Had I two faiths, then had I one for her.

Having of both but one, that one is given

To Sir John Harcop's daughter.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Ha, ha, what's that, let me hear that again?


To Sir John Harcop's Clare I have made an oath,

Part me in two, yet she's one half of both.

This hand the which I wear, it is half hers,

Such power has faith and truth twixt couples young,

Death only cuts that knot tied with the tongue.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

And have you knit that knot, Sir?


I have done so much, that if I wed not her,

My marriage makes me an adulterer.

In which black sheets, I wallow all my life,

My babes being bastards, and a whore my wife.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Ha, is it even so, my secretary there!

Enter Secretary

Lord Faulconbridge.

Write me a letter straight to Sir John Harcop.

I'll see, Sir Jack, and if that Harcop dare,

Being my ward, contract you to his daughter.

Exit Secretary.

My steward too, post you to Yorkshire,

Enter Steward.

Lord Faulconbridge

Where lies my youngster's land, and Sirrah

Fell me his wood, make havoc, spoil and waste.

Exit Steward.

Lord Faulconbridge.

Sir you shall know that you are ward to me,

I'll make you poor enough, then mend thyself.

Sir William. 

O cousin.


O uncle.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Contract thyself and where you list,

I'll make you know me, Sir, to be thy guard.


World, now you see what it is to be a ward.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

And where I meant myself to have disbursed

Four thousand pounds upon this marriage,

Surrendered up thy land to thy own use,

And compassed other portions to thy hands,

Sir, I'll now yokeyou still.


A yoke indeed.

Lord Faulconbridge.

In spite of daring to contradict my will,

I'll make you marry my chambermaid. Come cousin.


Act 1


Doctor Baxter. 

Faith Sir, it fits you to be more advised.


Do not you flatter for preferment, Sir.

Sir William. 

O but good cousin.


O but good uncle could I command my love,

Or cancel oaths out of heaven's brazen book,

Engrossed by God's own finger, then you might speak.

Had men that law to love as most have tongues

To love a thousand women with, then you might speak.

Was love like dust, lawful for every wind,

To bear from place to place, were oaths but puffs,

Men might forswear themselves, but I do know,

Youth's sin being past with us, the acts forgot,

The poor soul groans, and she forgets it not.

Sir William. 

Yet hear thy own case.


O it is too miserable,

That I, a gentleman, should be thus torn

From my own right, and forced to be forsworn.

Sir William. 

Yet being as it is, it must be thy care,

To solve it with advice, not with despair.

You are his ward; being so, the law intends,

He is to have thy duty, and in his rule

Is both thy marriage, and thy heritage.

If you rebel against these injunctions,

The penalty takes hold on you, which for himself,

He straight thus prosecutes: he wastes thy land,

Weds you where he thinks fit, but if thyself

Have of some violent humour matched thyself,

Without his knowledge, then he has power

To mercethy purse, and in a sum so great,

That shall forever keep thy fortunes weak.

Where otherwise if you be ruled by him,

Thy house is raised by matching to his kin.

Enter Lord Faulconbridge

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Now death of me, shall I be crossed by such a jack,

He wed himself, and where he list. Sirrah malapert.

I'll hamper you.

You that will have thy will, come get you in.

I'll make you shape thy thoughts to marry her,

Or wish thy birth had been thy murderer.


Faith pity me, because I am enforced,

For I have heard those matches have cost blood,

Where love is once begun and then withstood,


Act II

Scene I.

Enter Sir Francis Ilford and his page

Lord Ilford. 

Boy, have you delivered my letter?


Ay Sir, I saw him open the lips on't.

Lord Ilford. 

He had not a new suit on, had he?


I am not so well acquainted with his wardrobe Sir, but I saw a lean fellow, with sunken

eyes, and shamble legs, sigh pitifully at his chamber door, and entreat his man to put his

master in mind of him.

Lord Ilford. 

O, that was his tailor; I see now he will be blessed the profits by my council, he will pay

no debts before he is arrested, nor then neither, if he can find a beast that dare but be bail

for him, but he will seal in the afternoon.


Yes Sir, he will imprint for you as deep as he can.

Lord Ilford. 

Good, good, now I have a parson's nose, and smell coming in then. Now let me number

how many rooks I have half undone already this term by the first return, four by dice, six

by being bound with me, and ten by queens, of which some be courtiers, some country

gentlemen, and some citizens' sons. You are a good Sir Frank, if you purge thus, you are

still a companion for gallants, must keep a catapult, and take physics at the spring and the


Enter Wentloe.


Frank, news that will make you fat, Frank!

Lord Ilford. 

Pray, rather give me some that will keep me lean, I have no mind yet to take physician.


Master Scarborrow is a married man.

Lord Ilford. 

Then heaven grant he may, as few married men do, make much of his wife.




Why? Have him love her, let her command all, and make her his master?

Lord Ilford. 

No, no, they that do so make not much of their wives, but give them their will, and it's the

marring of them.

Enter Bartley.


Honest Frank, valorous Frank, a portion of thy wit, but to help us in this enterprise, and

we may walk London streets and cry "pish" at the sergeants.


You may shift out one term, and yet die in the counter, these are the scabs now that hang

upon honest jobs; I am honest, and these are the scurvy scabs, but what's this thy pet

seeks over withal?


Master Scarborrow is a married man.


He has all his land in his own hand.


His brother and sister's portions.


Besides four thousand pounds in ready money with his wife.


A good talent by my faith, it might help many gentlemen to pay their tailors, and I might

be one of them.


Nay, honest Frank, have you found a trick for him? If you have not, look here's a line to

direct you. First draw him into bands for money, then to dice for it. Then take up stuff at

the mercers, straight to a punk with it. Then mortgage his land, and be drunk with that so

with them and the rest, from an ancient gentleman, make him a young beggar.


What a rogue is this, to read a lecture to me, and my own lesson too, which he knows I

have made perfect to nine hundred fourscore and nineteen. A cheating rascal will teach

me that has made them that have worn a spacious park, lodge and all of their backs this

morning, been fain to pawn it before night, and they that have stalked like a huge

elephant, with a castle on their necks, and removed you to their own shoulders in one day

which their fathers built up in seven years, been glad by my means, in so much time as a

child sucks, to drink bottled ale though a punk pays for it. And shall this pirate instruct



No but Frank...


A rogue that has fed upon me and the fruit of my wit like pollen from a panther's

chippings , and now I put him into good clothes to shift two suits in a day, he that once

could scarcely shift a patched shirt in a year, and say’s prayers when he had it. Hark, how

he prattles.


Besides Frank, since his marriage, he stalks me like a cashiered captain discontented, in

which melancholy, the least drop of mirth, of which you have an ocean, will make him

and all that is his, ours for ever.


Says my own rogue so? Give me thy hand then, we'll do it, and there's earnest. Strike

him. God's foot you chittiface, that looks worse than a collier through a wooden

window, an ape afraid of a whip, or a knave's head, shook for seven years in the weather

upon London Bridge. Do you catechise me?


No but valorous Frank, he that knows the secrets of all hearts, knows I did it in kindness.


Know thy seasons; besides, I am not of that species for you to instruct. Then know thy



God's foot friends, friends, all friends. Here comes young Scarborrow; should he know of

this, all our indecencies would be prevented.

Enter Scarborrow.


What, melancholy my young master, my young married man? God give thy worship joy.


Joy of what Frank?


Of thy wealth, for I hear of few that have joy of their wives.


Who weds as I have to enforced sheets,

His care increases, but his comfort fleets.


Though having so much wit, what devil did you mean to marry?


O speak not of it,

Marriage sounds in my ear like a bell,

Not rung for pleasure, but a doleful knell.


A common course: those men that are married in the morning, to wish themselves buried

by night.


I cannot love her.


No news either, wives know that's a general fault amongst their husbands.


I will not lie with her.


Cetera volunt she'll say still, if you will not, another will.


Why did she marry me, knowing I did not love her?


As other women do, either to be maintained by you, or to make you a cuckold. Now Sir,

what do you come for?

Enter Clown.


As men do in haste, to make an end of their business.


What's thy business?


My business is this Sir, this Sir, and this Sir.


The meaning of all this Sir?


By this is as much as to say Sir, my master has sent me unto you. By this is as much as to

say Sir, my master has humbly commended unto you, and by this is as much as to say,

my master craves thy answer.


Give me thy letter. And you shall have this Sir, this Sir, and this Sir.


No Sir.


Why Sir?


Because as the learned have very well instructed me, Qui supranos, nihil adnos, and

though many gentlemen will have to do with other men's business, yet from me know, the

most part of them prove knaves for their labour.


You have the knave's faith Frank.


Long may he live to enjoy it. From Sir John Harcop of Harcop, in the county of York,

knight, by me his man, to thyself my young master, by these presents greeting.


How did you come by these good words?


As you by thy good clothes, took them upon trust, and swore I would never pay for them.


Thy master Sir John Harcop writes to me,

That I should entertain you for my man;

His wish is acceptable. You are welcome, fellow.

O but thy master's daughter sends an article

Which makes me think upon my present sin:

Here she remembers me to keep in mind

My promised faith to her, which I have broken.

Here she remembers me I am a man,

Black whore with perjury, whose sinful breast,

Is character like those cursed of the blessed.


How now my young bully, like a young wench forty weeks after the loss of her maiden

head, crying out.


Trouble me not,

Give me a pen, ink, and paper, I will write to her-

O, but what shall I write?

My own excuse? Why no excuse can serve

For him that swears, and from his oath does swerve.

Or shall I say, my marriage was enforced,

'Twas bad in them, not well in me to yield,

Wretched you to whose marriage were compelled

I'll only write that which my grave has bred,

Forgive me Clare, for I am married.

'Tis soon set down, but not so soon forgotten, or worn from hence.

Deliver it unto her, there's for thy pains,

Would I as soon could cleanse these perished stains.


Well, I could alter my eyes from filthy mud into fair water. You have paid for my tears,

and my eyes shall prove bankrupt, and break out for you, let no man persuade me, I will

cry, and every town betwixt Shoreditch church and York bridge, shall bear me witness.


Gentlemen, I'll take my leave of you.

She that I am married to but not my wife,

Will leave London, and lead our life in Yorkshire.


We must not leave you so, my young gallant, we three are sick in state, and thy wealth

must help to make us whole again.

For this saying is as true as old,

Strife nursed betwixt man and wife, makes such a flaw,

However great their wealth, it will have a thaw.



Act II

Scene II 

Enter Sir John Harcop with his daughter Clare, and the two younger Scarborrow 

brothers, Thomas and John.


Brothers long shall you be, my sons,

By the wedding of this young girl. You are both welcome.

No kiss her, kiss, though she shall

Be thy brother's wife, to kiss the cheek is free.


Kiss, God's foot what else? You are a good plump wench, I like you well, pray make

haste and bring forth a store of boys; but be sure they have good faces, that they may call

me uncle.


Glad of so fair a sister, I salute you.


Good, good faith, this kissing's good faith,

I loved to smack it too when I was young,

But now that they have felt thy cheek, Clare, let them hear thy tongue.


Such welcome as befits my Scarborrow's brothers,

From me the plight of truth, his wife is sure to have,

And though my tongue proves scant in any part,

The bounds be sure are large, full in my heart.


Tut, it's not that we doubt on wench, but do you hear, Sir John, what do you think drew

me from London, and the inns of court, this far into Yorkshire?


I guess to see this girl that shall be thy sister.


Faith, and I guess partly so too, but the main was, and I will not lie to you, that thy

coming now in this wise into our kindred, I might be acquainted with you aforehand, that

after my brother had married thy daughter, I his brother might borrow some money of



What? Do you borrow of thy kindred Sir?


God's foot, what else? They having interest in my blood, why should not I have interest

in their coin? Besides Sir, I being a younger brother would be ashamed of my generation

if I would not borrow of any man that would lend, especially of my affinity, of whom I

keep a calendar. And look Sir; I will go over them. First are my uncles, after are mine

aunts, then up to my nephews, straight down to my nieces, to this cousin Thomas, and

that cousin Jeffrey, leaving the courteous Clare given to none of their elbows, even to the

third and fourth removed of any that has interest in our blood. All, which do upon their

summons made by me, duly and faithfully provide for appearance, and so as they are, I

hope we shall be, more endeared, inertly, better, and more feelingly acquainted.


You are a merry gentleman.


'Tis the hope of money makes me so, and I know none but fools to be sad with it.


From Oxford am I drawn, from serious studies

Expecting that my brother still had sojourned

With you his best of choice, and this good knight.


His absence shall not make our hearts less merry

Than if we had his presence. A day ere long

Will bring him back, when one the other meets,

At noon in the church, at night between the sheets.

We'll wash this chat with wine. Some wine; fill up.

The sharpener of the wit is a full cup. And so to you, Sir.


Do, and I'll drink to my new sister, but upon this condition, that she may have quiet days,

little rest at nights, pleasant afternoons, be compliant to my brother, and lend me money

when so ever I'll borrow it.


Nay, nay, nay,

Women are weak and we must bear with them,

Thy frolic health is only fit for men.


Well, I am contented, women must to the wall, though it is to a feather bed. Fill up then.

Enter 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 wished most,

A Husband, a Husband, a pretty sweet Husband,

Cry O, O, O, and alas, and at last ho, ho, ho, as I do.


Returned so soon from London? What's the news?


O mistress, if ever you have seen demonically clear, look into my eyes, my 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 between this and London.


Thy news, good Robin.


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 to the last of May.


A Letter from my Scarborrow, give it to thy mistress.


But mistress.


Pray be gone,

I would not have my father or this gentleman

Be witness of the comfort it brings.


O but mistress.


Pray be gone,

With this, and the glad news, leave me alone.

Exit Clown.


'Tis thy turn knight, take thy liquor; know I am bountiful, I'll forgive any man any thing

that he owes me, but his drink, and that I'll be paid for.


Gentlemen the honesty of mirth consists not in carousing with excess;

My father has more welcomes than in wine. Pray you no more.


Says my sister so; I'll be ruled by you then. Do you hear, in hope hereafter you'll lend me

some money, now we are half drunk let's go to dinner. Come knight.


Manet Clare.

Act II

Scene III


I am glad you're gone.

Shall I now open it? No, I'll kiss it first,

Because his outside last did kiss his hand.

Within this fold, I'll see sacred sheet,

Are written black lines, when our white hearts shall meet,

Before I open this door of my delight,

I think I'll guess how kindly he does write,

Of his true love to me, as chuck, sweetheart,

I pray 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,

Wishing my lips his sheet to write upon,

With like desire I think as my own thoughts,

Ask him now hear for me to look upon,

Yet at the last thinking his love too slack,

Ere it arrives at my desired eyes,

He hastens up his message with like speed,

Even as I break this open, wishing to read.

O, what's here? My eyes are not my own! Sure they are not,

Though you have been my lamps this sixteen years,

Lets fall the letter.

You do belie my Scarborrow 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 troth plight virgin like myself.

Beshrew you for thy blindness. Forgive him; he is married.

I know my Scarborrow'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? Asked forgiveness?

What a blind fool was I? Yet here's a letter

To who directed true? To my beloved Clare.

Why law?

Women will read, and read not that they saw,

'Twas but my fervent love misled my eyes,

I'll once again to the inside: Forgive me, I am married,

William Scarborrow. He has set his name to it too,

O perjury within the hearts of men

Thy feasts are kept, their tongues proclaim them.

Enter Thomas Scarborrow.



Sister, God's precious, the cloth's laid, the meat cools, we all stay, and thy father calls for



Kind Sir, prithee excuse me a little,

I'll but peruse this letter and come straight.


Pray you make haste; the meat stays for us, and our stomachs

Ready for the meat, for believe this,

Drink makes men hungry, or it makes them lie,

And he that's drunk over night, in the morning is dry,

Seen and approved.



He was contracted mine, yet he unjust

Has married to another: what's my estate then?

A wretched maid not fit for any man,

For being united his with plighted faiths,

Who ever sues to me commits a sin,

Besiege me, and who shall marry me

Is like myself, lives in adultery. O God

That such hard fortune should betide my youth.

I am young, fair, rich, honest, virtuous,

Yet for all this, who here shall marry me?

I am but his whore, 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 whore.

I must be made a strumpet against my will,

A name I have abhorred, a shameful ill

I have eschewed, and now cannot withstand it

In myself I am my father's only child,

In me he has a hope, though not his name

Can be increased, yet by my issue

His land shall be possessed, 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 gripe does 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:

Then live a strumpet? Better be unborn.

Enter John Scarborrow


Sister, pray you will you come?

Thy father and the whole meeting stays for you.


I come, I come, I pray return: I come.


I must not go without you.


Be you my usher, sooth I'll follow you


He writes here to forgive him; he is married

False gentleman: I do forgive you with my heart,

Yet will I send an answer to thy letter,

And in so short words you shall not weep to read them,

And here's my agent ready. Forgive me; I am dead.

It's written, and I will act it. Be judge, you maids

Have trusted the false promises of men.

Be judge you wives, which have been enforced

From the white sheets you loved, to those you 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 does 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 taster'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, end many done by him.

Farewell the world, then farewell the wedded joys

'Til this I have hoped for, from that gentleman.

Scarborrow, forgive me: thus you have lost thy wife,

Yes record would, though by an act too foul,

A wife thus did to cleanse her husband's soul.

Enter Sir John Harcop.


God's precious, for his mercy, where's this wench?

Must all my friends and guests attend on you?

Where are you, minion?


Scarborrow come close mine eyes, for I am dead.


That sad voice was not hers I hope:

Who's this, my daughter?


Thy daughter,

That begs of you to see her buried,

Pray Scarborrow to forgive her: she is dead.



Patience good tears, and let my words have way!

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

Lift up thy eyes, and look upon thy father,

They were not born to lose their light so soon,

I did beget you for my comforter,

And not to be the author of my care.

Why speak you not? Some help, my servants there:

What hand has made you pale? Or if thy own,

What causes have you that were thy father's joy?

The treasure of his age, the cradle of his sleep,

His all in all? I pray you 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; pray you let me go,

You dying while I live, I am dead with woe.

Enter Thomas, and John Scarborrow.


What means this outcry?


O wrathful spectacle.


You were not wont to be so sullen child,

But kind and loving to thy aged father:

Awake, awake, if be thy lasting sleep,

Would I had not sense for grief, nor eyes to weep.


What papers this? The sad contents does tell me,

My brother writ, he has broke his faith to her,

And she replies, for him she has killed herself.


Was that the cause that you have soiled thyself

With these red spots, these blemishes of beauty?

My child, my child, was perjury in him,

Made you so fair, act now so foul a sin,

That he deceived you in a mother's hope,

Posterity, the bliss of marriage?

You have no tongue to answer no, or I,

But in red letters writes: for him I die.

Curse on his traitorous tongue, his youth, his blood,

His pleasures, children, and possessions,

Be all his days like winter, comfortless:

Restless his nights, his wants remorseless,

And may his corpse be the physician's stage,

Which played upon, stands not to honoured age,

Or with diseases may he lie and pine,

'Till grief wastes blood, his eyes, as grief does mine.



O good old man, made wretched by this deed,

The more thy age were to be pitied.




Enter Scarborrow, his wife Katherine, Ilford, Wentloe, Bartley and Butler.


What ride by the gate, and not call? That were a shame, faith.


We'll but taste of his beer, kiss his daughter, and to horse again. Where's the good knight



You bring me to my shame unwillingly.


Shamed of what, for deceiving of a wench? I had not blushed, that had done it to a

hundred of them.

In women's love he's wise, does follow this:

Love one so long till he another kisses.

Where's the good knight here?


O brother, you are come to make thine eye

Sad mourner at a fatal tragedy.

Peruse this letter first, and then this corpse.


O wronged Clare? Accursed Scarborrow?

I wrote to her that I was married,

She writes to me, forgive her, she is dead:

I'll blame thy body with my faithful tears,

And be perpetual mourner at thy tomb,

I'll sacrifice smiles and be commited to sighs,

Make a consumption of this pile of man,

And all the benefits my parents gave

Shall turn distempered to appease the wrath

For this blood shed, and I am guilty of.


Dear husband.


False woman, not my wife, though married to me,

Look what thy friends and you art guilty of:

The murther of a creature, equalled heaven

In her creation, whose thoughts like fire

Never looked base, but ever did aspire

To blessed benefits, till you and thine undid her,

Eye her, view, though dead, yet she does look

Like a fresh frame, or a new printed book

Of the best paper, never looked into,

But with one sullied finger, which did spot her,

Which was her own too. But who was cause of it?

You and thy friends, and I will loathe you for't.

Enter Sir John Harcop.


They do belie her that says she's dead,

She is but strayed to some by-gallery,

And I must ha her again. Clare, where are you, Clare?


Here, laid to take her everlasting sleep.


A lie that says so,

Yet now I know you, I do lie that say it,

For if she be a villain like thyself,

A perjurer, traitor, recreant; miscreant,

Dog, a dog, a dog, has done it.


O Sir John Harcop.


O Sir John villain, to betrothe thy self

To this good creature, harmless, harmless child,

This kernel, hope, and comfort of my house,

Without enforcement, of thy own accord,

Draw all her soul with compass of an oath,

Take that oath from her; make her for none but you,

And then betray her?


Shames on them were the cause of it.


But, hark, what you have 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.


O, 'tis too true.


I made a wretched father childless.


I made a married man, yet wifeless.


You the cause of it.


You the cause of it.


Curse on the day that ere it was begun,

For I an old man am undone, undone.



For charity have care upon thy father,

Lest that his grief bring on a more mishap,

This to my arms, my sorrow shall bequeath,

Though I have lost her, to thy grave I'll bring,

You were my wife, and I'll thy requiem sing:

Go you to the country; I'll to London back,

All riot now, since that my soul's so black.

Exit with Clare.

Act II 

Scene V


Thus am I left like sea-tossed-mariners

My fortunes being no more than my distress,

Upon what shore so ever I am driven,

Be it good or bad, I must account it heaven,

Though married, I am reputed not a wife,

Neglected of my husband, scorned, despised,

And though my love and true obedience

Lies prostrate to his beckon, 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?


Toward Wakefield, where my master's living lies.


Toward Wakefield where thy master we'll attend;

When things are at the worst, 'tis hoped they'll mend.

Enter Thomas and John Scarborrow.


How now sister, no further forward on thy journey yet?


When grief's before one, who'd go on to grieve?

I'd rather turn me back to find some comfort.


And that way sorrows hurt fuller than this,

My brother having brought unto a grave,

That murdered body that he called his wife,

And spent so many tears upon her hearse,

As would have made a tyrant to relent,

Then kneeling at her coffin, thus he vowed,

From thence he never would embrace thy bed.


The more fool he.


Never from hence acknowledge you his wife.

When others strive to enrich their father's name,

It should be his only aim to beggar his,

To spend their means, and in his only pride,

Which with a sigh confirmed, he's rid to London,

Vowing a course, that by his life so foul

Men never should join the hands, without the soul.


All is but grief, and I am armed for it.


We'll bring you on thy way in hope that's strong

Time may at length make straight what yet is wrong.




Scene I

Enter Ilford, Wentloe, and Bartley.


He's our own, he's our own. Come, let's make use of his wealth, as the snow of ice: melt

it, melt it.


But are you sure he will hold his meeting?


As sure as I am now, and was dead drunk last night.


Why then so sure will I be arrested by a couple of sergeants, a fall into one of the unlucky

cranks about Cheapside, called Counters.


Withal, I have provided Mister Gripe the Usurer, who upon the instant will be ready to

step in, charge the Sergeants to keep you fast, and that now he will have his five hundred

pounds, or you shall rot for it.


When it follows, young Scarborrow shall be bonded for the one: then take up as much

more, we share the one half, and help him to be drunk with the other.


Ha, ha, ha.

Enter Scarborrow.


Why do you laugh, Frank?


To see that Usurers and ourselves live by the fall of young heirs as swine by the dropping

of acorns. But he's come. Where are these rogues? Shall we have no tendency here?


Good day gentlemen.


A thousand good days, my noble bully, and as many good fortunes as there were

grasshoppers in Egypt, and that's covered over with good luck: but nouns, pronouns, and

participles. Where be these rogues here? What, shall we have no wine here?

Enter Drawer.


Anon, anon, Sir.


Anon, good man rascal, must we stay thy leisure? Get it for us by and by, a pox on you.


O, do not hurt the fellow.

Exit Drawer


Hurt him; hang him, Scrape-trencher, star-warden, wine spiller, mettle Clarence, and

rogue by generation. Why, do you hear, Will? If you do you not use these grape spillers

as you do their bottle-pots, quit them down stairs three or four times at a supper, they'll

grow as saucy with you as sergeants, and make bills more unconscionable then tailors.

Enter Drawer


Here's the pure and neat grape, gentlemen, I have for you.


Fill up. What have you brought here, good man rogue?


The pure element of claret, Sir.


Have you so, and did not I call for Rhenish?

Throws the wine in the Drawer's face.

You mongrel.


You need no wine, I pray you, be more mild


Be mild in a tavern? 'Tis treason to the Red Lettuce: enemy to their signpost, and slave

to humour.

Pray, let's be mad,

Then fill our heads with wine, till every pate is drunk,

Then piss in the street, just tell all you meet, and with a punk,

As you will do now and then. Thank me, thy good master, that brought you to it.


Nay, he profits well, but the worst is he will not swear yet.


Do not belie me: if there be any good in me that's the best: oaths are necessary for

nothing. They pass out of a man's mouth like smoke through a chimney, that files all the

way it goes.


Why then I think tobacco be a kind of swearing, for it furs our nose pokily.


But come; let's drink our selves into a stomach before supper.


Agreed. I'll begin with a new health. Fill up.

To them that make land fly,

By wine, whores, and a die.

To them, that only thrives,

By kissing others' wives.

To them that pay for clothes,

With nothing but with oaths:

Care not from whom they get,

So they may be in debt:

This health, my hearts.


But who their tailors pay,

Borrow, and keep their day,

We'll hold him like this glass,

A brainless empty ass,

And not a mate for us.

Drink round, my hearts.


An excellent health.

Enter Drawer.

Master Ilford, there's a couple of strangers beneath desire to speak with you.


What beards have they? Gentleman-like-beards, or broker-like-beards?


I am not so well acquainted with the art of face-mending Sir: but they would speak with



I'll go down to them.


Do, and we'll stay here and drink tobacco.


Thus like a fever that does shake a man

From strength to weakness, I consume myself:

I know this company, they're custom vile,

Hated, abhorred of good men, yet like a child

By reasons rule instructed how to know

Evil from good, I to the worse go.

Why do you suffer this, you upper powers,

That I should surfeit in the sin I taste,

Have sense to feel my mischief, yet make waste

Of heaven and earth?

Myself will answer, what myself does ask:

Who once does cherish sin, begets his shame,

For vice being fostered once, comes impudence,

Which makes men count sin custom, not offence.

When all like me their reputation blots,

Pursuing evil, while the good's forgot.

Enter Ilford led in by a couple of sergeants, and Gripe the Usurer.


Nay, never strive, we can hold you.


Ay, me, and any man else, and a fall into thy clutches. Let go thy tugging, as I am a

Gentleman, I'll be thy true prisoner.


How now: what's the matter, Frank?


I am fallen into the hands of sergeants, I am arrested.


How, arrest a gentleman in our company?


Put up, put up, for sin's sake put up, let's not all sup in the counter tonight. Let me speak

with master Gripe the creditor.


Well: what say you to me, Sir?


You have arrested me here, master Gripe.


Not I Sir, the sergeants have.


But at thy suit, master Gripe: yet hear me, as I am a gent.


I rather you could say as you were an honest man, and then I might believe you.


Yet hear me.


Hear me no hearings, I lent you my money for good will.


And I spent it for mere necessity; I confess I owe you five hundred pound, and I confess I

owe not a penny to any man, but he would be glad to ha't: my bond you have already,

master Gripe. If you will, now take my word.


Word me no words: officers, look to thy prisoner. If you cannot either make me present

payment, or put me in security such as I shall like too...


Such as you shall like too. What say you to this young gent? He is the pigeon that we

must feed upon.


Who, young master Scarborrow? He is an honest gentleman for ought I know, I never

lost penny by him.


I would be ashamed any man should say so by me, that I have had dealings withal. But

my enforced friends, will it please you but to retire into some small distance, whilst I

descend with a few words to these gentlemen, and I'll commit myself into thy hands



Well Sir, we'll wait upon you.


Gentlemen, I am to proffer some conference, and in especially to you,

master Scarborrow: our meeting here for thy mirth has proved to me thus adverse, that in

thy companies I am arrested. How ill it will stand with the flourish of thy reputations

when men of rank and note communicate, that I Frank Ilford, gentlemen, whose fortunes

may transcend, to make ample gratuities future, and heap satisfaction for any present

extension of his friends' kindness, was enforced from the master in Bread Street, to the

counter in the poultry. For my own part, if you shall think it meet, and that it shall accord

with the state of gentry, to submit myself from the featherbed in the masters' side, or the

flock-bed in the knights' ward, to the straw-bed in the hole, I shall buckle to my heels

instead of gilt spurs, the armour of patience, and dote.


Come, come, what a pox need all this? This is Mellis Flora, the sweetest of the honey, he

that was not made to fat cattle, but to feed gentlemen.


You wear good clothes.


Are well descended.


Keep the best company.


Should regard thy credit.


Stand not upon it, be bound, and be bound.


You are richly married.


Love not thy wife.


Have store of friends.


Who shall be thy heir?


The son of some slave?


Some groom?


Some horse keeper?


Stand not upon it, be bound, be bound.


Well, at thy importance, for once I'll stretch my purse.

Who's born to sink, as good this way as worse.


Now speaks my bully like a gentleman of worth.


Of merit.


Fit to be regarded.


That shall command our souls.


Our swords.




To feed upon you as pharaoh’s lean did upon the fat.


Master Gripe, is my bond current for this gentleman?


Good security, you Egyptian grasshopper, good security?


And for as much more, kind Master Scarborrow. Provided that men mortal as we are

May have-


May have security.


-Thy bond with land conveyed, which may assure me of mine own again.


You shall be satisfied, and I'll become thy debtor, for full five hundred more than he does

owe you.

This night we sup here. Bear us company

And bring thy counsel, scrivener, and the money with you,

Where I will make as full assurance as in the law you'd wish.


I take thy word Sir, and so discharge you of thy prisoner.


Why then let's come and take up a new room, the infected has spit in this.

He that has store of coin wants not a friend,

You shall receive sweet rogue, and we will spend.




Scene II

Enter Thomas and John Scarborrow,


Brother, you see the extremity of want

Enforces us to question for our own,

The rather that we see, not like a brother

Our brother keeps from us to spend on other.


True, he has in his hands our portions, the patrimony which our father gave us, with

which he lies fatting himself with sack and sugar in the house, and we are fain to walk

with lean purses abroad. Credit must be maintained, which will not be without money,

good clothes must be had, which will not be without money; company must be kept,

which will not be without money, all which we must have, and from him we will have



Besides, we have brought our sister to this town,

That she herself, having her own from him,

Might bring herself in court to be preferred,

Under some noble personage, or else that he

Whose friends are great in court by his late match,

As he is in nature bound, provide for her.


And he shall do it, brother, though we have waited at his lodging, longer than a tailor's

bill on a young knight for an old reckoning, without speaking with him: Here we know he

is, and we will call him to parle.


Yet let us do it in mild and gentle terms;

Fair words perhaps may sooner draw our own,

Than rougher courses by which his mischief grown.

Enter Drawer.


Anon, anon, look down into the Dolphin there.


Here comes a drawer; we will question him.


Do you hear my friend, is not master Scarborrow here?


Here Sir, what a jest is that, where should he be else? I would have you well know my

master hopes to grow rich before he leaves him.


How long has he continued here since he came hither?


Faith Sir, not so long as Noah's flood, yet long enough to have drowned up the livings of

three Knights, as Knights go now a days; some month or there about.


Time ill consumed to ruinate our house,

But what are they that keep him company?


Pitch, pitch, but I must not say so, but for thy further satisfaction. Did you ever see a

young whelp and a lion play together?




Such is master Scarborrow's company.

Within Oliver. 


Anon, anon, look down to the Pomegranate there.


I pray, say here's them would speak with him.


I'll do thy message. Anon, anon there.



This fool speaks wiser then he is aware.

Young heirs left in this town where sin's so rank,

And prodigals gape to grow fat by them,

Are like young whelps thrown in the lions' den,

Who play with them awhile and at length devour them.

Enter Scarborrow.


Who's there would speak with me?


Thy brothers, who are glad to see you well.




'Tis not thy riot, that we hear you use,

With such as waste their goods, as time the world

With neither a continual spending, nor that you keep

The company of a most leprous rout,

Consumes thy body's wealth, infects thy name

With such plague-sores, that had you reasons ere,

It would make you sick, to see you visit them,

Has drawn us, but our wants to crave the due

Our father gave, and yet remains with you.


Our birthright, good brother; this town craves maintenance, silk stockings must be had,

and we would be loath our heritage should be arraigned at the Vintners' bar, and so

condemned to the Vintners' box. You while you did keep house, we had some belly-

timber at thy table, or so, yet we would have you think, we are thy brothers, yet no excuse

to sell our patrimony for porridge.


So, so, what has thy coming else?


With us our sister joins in our request,

Whom we have brought along with us to London,

To have her portion, wherewith to provide,

An honoured service, or an honest bride.


So, then you two my brothers, and she my sister, come not as in duty you are bound, to

an elder brother, out of Yorkshire to see us, but like leaches to suck from us.


We come compelled by want to crave our own.


Sir, for thy own, then thus be satisfied,

Both hers and thine were left in trust with me,

And I will keep it for you. Must you appoint us,

Or what we please to like mixed with reproof,

You have been too saucy both, and you shall know,

I'll curb you for it. Ask why: I'll have it so.


We do but crave our own.


Thy own Sir, what's thy own?


Our portions given us by our father's will.


Which here you spend.




Ways worse than ill.


Ha, ha, ha.

Enter Ilford.


Nay, nay, nay, Will pray come away, we have a full gallon of sack stays in the fire for

you; you must pledge it to the health of a friend of yours.


What do you think these are, Frank?


They are fiddlers I think, if they be, I pray send them into the next room, and let them

scrape there, and we'll send to them presently.


They are my brothers Frank, come out of Yorkshire, to the tavern here, to ask their

portions. They call my pleasures riots, my company leprous, and like a schoolboy, they

would tutor me.


O, you should have done well to have bound them prentices when they were young, they

would have made a couple of saucy tailors.




Ay birdlime, tailors; tailors are good men, and in the term time they wear good clothes.

Come, you must learn more manners, stand at thy brother's back, as to shift a trencher

neatly, and take a cup of sack, and a capon's leg contentedly.


You are a slave that feeds upon my brother like a fly, poisoning where you do you suck..


You lie.


O, to my grief I speak it, you shall find,

There's no more difference in a tavern haunter

Than is between a spittle and a beggar.


You work on him like tempests on a ship.


And he the weary trafficker that does sink.


You make his name more loathsome then a grave.


Lives like a dog, by vomit.


Die, slaves.

Here they draw. Wentloe, and Bartley come in, and the two Vintners' boys, with clubs. 

All set upon the two brothers. Butler, Scarborrow's man comes in, stands by, and sees 

them fight; takes part with neither.


Do, fight: I love you all well, because you were my old master’s sons, but I'll neither part

you, nor be partaker with you. I come to bring my master news: he has two sons born at

a birth in Yorkshire, and I find him together by the ears with his brothers in a tavern in

London. Brother and brother at odds, 'tis naught: sure, it was not thus in the days of

charity. What's this world like to? Faith, just like an innkeeper's chamber pot: receives all

waters, good and bad, it had need of much scouring. My old master kept a good house,

and twenty or thirty tall sword and buckler men about him, and faith his son differs not

much: he will have metal too, though he has not store of cutlers' blades, he will have

plenty of Vintners' pots. His father kept a good house for honest men, his tenants, that

brought him in part, and his son keeps a bad house with knaves that help to consume all.

'Tis but the change of time: why should any man repine at it? Credits, good living, and

lucky worms, were wont to feed, sing, and rejoice in the father's chimney, and now

carrion crows build in the son's kitchen. I could be sorry for it, but I am too old to weep.

Well then, I will go tell him news of his offspring.




Scene III

Enter the two brothers, Thomas and John Scarborrow hurt, and sister.


Ah, good brothers, how came this mischance?


Our portions, our brother has given us our portions sister, has he not?


He would not be so monstrous I am sure.


Excuse him not, he is more degenerate

Than greedy vipers that devour their mother;

They eat on her but to preserve themselves,

And he consumes himself, and beggars us.

A tavern is his inn, where amongst slaves

He kills his substance, making pots the graves

To bury that which our forefathers gave.

I asked him for our portions, told him that you

Were brought to London, and we were in want,

Humbly we craved our own, when his reply

Was, he knew none we had, beg, starve, or die.


Alas, what course is left for us to live by then?


In truth, sister, we two to beg in the fields,

And you to betake thy self to the old trade,

Filling of small cans in the suburbs.


Shall I be left then like a common road,

That every beast that can but pay his toll

May travel over, and like to camomile,

Flourish the better being trodden on?

Enter Butler bleeding.


Well, I will not curse him: he feeds now upon sack and anchovies, with a pox to him: but

if he be not fain before he dies to eat acorns, let me live with nothing but pollard, and

my mouth be made a cooking stool for every scold to set her tale on.


How now, Butler, what's the meaning of this?


Thy brother means to lame as many as he can, that is a beggar himself, many live with

him in the hospital. His wife sent me out of Yorkshire, to tell him that God had blessed

him with two sons, he bids a plague of them, a vengeance of her, crosses me o'er the

pate, and sends me to the surgeons to seek salvage. I looked at least he should have given

me a brace of angels for my pains.


You have not lost all thy longing: I am sure he has given you a cracked crown.


A plague on his fingers, I cannot tell. He is thy brother and my master, I would be loath

to prophesy of him, but who so ever does curse his children being infants, ban his wife

lying in childbed, and beats his man brings him news of it, they may be born rich, but

they shall live slaves, be knaves, and die beggars.


Did he do so?


Guess you, he bid a plague of them, a vengeance on her, and sent me to the surgeons.


Why then I see there is no hope of him. Some husbands are disrespectful of their wives

during the time that they are useless, but none with infants blessed can nourish hate, but

love the mother for the children's sake.


But he that is given over into sin,

Leprosies therewith without, and so within,

O butler, we were issue to one father?


And he was an honest gentleman.


Whose hopes were better then the son he left

Should set so soon, into his house's shame.

He lives in taverns, spending of his wealth,

And here his brothers and distressed sister,

Not having any means to help us with.


Not a Scots bawbee (by this hand) to bless us with.


And not content to riot out his own,

But he detains our portions: suffers us

In this strange air, open to every wrack,

Whilst he in riot swims, to be in lack.


The more's the pity.


I know not what course to take me to.

Honesty fain would live: what shall I do?


Sooth I'll tell you, thy brother has hurt us,

We three will hurt you, and then go all to a spital together.


Jest not at her whose burden is too grievous,

But rather lend a means how to relieve us.


Well, I do pity you, and the rather because you say, you would fain live honest and want

means for it, for I can tell you 'tis as strange here to see a maid fair, poor, and honest, as

to see a collier with a clean face. Maids here do live (especially without maintenance)

like mice going to a trap, they nibble long, at last they get a clap. Thy father was my good

benefactor, and gave me a house whilst I live to put my head in: for I would be loath

then to see his only daughter, for want of means, turn punk, I have a drift to keep you

honest. Have you a care to keep thyself so, yet you shall not know of it, for women's

tongues are like sieves, they will hold nothing, they have power to vent. You two will

further me


In any thing, good honest Butler.


If it were to take a purse I'll be one.


Perhaps you speak more right then you are aware of. Well, as chance is, I have received

my wages: there is forty shillings for you, I'll set you in a lodging, and till you hear from

us, let that provide for you. We'll first to the surgeons.

To keep you honest, and to keep you brave,

For once an honest man will turn a knave.



Scene IV

Enter Scarborrow having a boy carrying a torch with him, Ilford, Wentloe, and Bartley.


Boy, bear the torch fair. Now am I armed to fight with a windmill, and to take the wall

of an emperor. Much drink, no money: a heavy head, and a light pair of heels.


O stand, man.


I were an excellent creature to make a punk of, I should down with the least touch of a

knave's finger, and thou hast made a good night of this. What have you won, Frank?


A matter of nothing, some hundred pounds.


This is the hell of all gamesters, I think: when they are at play, the board eats up the

money For if there be five hundred pound lost, there's never but a hundred pounds won.

Boy, take the wall of any man, and yet by light, such deeds of darkness may not be. Put

out the torch.


What do you mean by that, Will?


To save charge, and walk like a fury with a fire-brand in my hand; every one goes by the

light, and we'll go by the smoke.

Enter Lord Faulconbridge.


Boy, keep the wall: I will not budge for any man, by these thumbs, and the paring of the

nails shall stick in thy teeth not for a world.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Who's this, young Scarborrow?


The man that the mare rode on.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Is this the reverence that you owe to me?


You should have brought me up better.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

That vice should thus transform man to a beast.


Go to, thy name’s Lord, I'll talk with you when you're out of debt and have better clothes.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

I pity you even with my very soul.


Pity with thy throat, I can drink muscatine and eggs, and mulled sack, do you hear? You

put a piece of turned stuff upon me, but I will-

Lord Faulconbridge. 

What will you do, Sir?


Piss in thy way, and that's no slander.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Thy sober blood will teach you otherwise.

Enter Sir William Scarborrow.

Sir William. 

My honoured Lord, thou'rt happily well met.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Ill met to see thy nephew in this case,

More like a brute beast, than a gentleman.

Sir William. 

Fie nephew, shame you not thus to transform thyself?


Can thy nose smell a torch?


Be not so wild, it is thine uncle, Scarborrow.


Why then 'tis the more likely 'tis my father's brother.

Sir William. 

Shame to our name, to make thyself a beast,

Thy body warrior born, and thy youth's breast

Tiled in due time for better discipline.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Thyself new married to a noble house,

Rich in possessions, and posterity,

Which should call home thy unsaid affections.

Sir William. 

Where you make havoc.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Riot, spoil, and waste.

Sir William. 

Of what thy father left.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

And lives disgraced.


I'll send you shorter to heaven than you came to the earth; do you catechise? Do you


He draws and strikes at them.


Hold, hold, do you draw upon thine uncle?


Pox of that, Lord,

We'll meet at Mitre, where we'll sup down sorrow,

We are drunk tonight, and so we'll be tomorrow.


Lord Faulconbridge. 

Why now I see: what I heard of, I believed not,

Thy kinsman lives. -

Sir William. 

Like to a swine.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

A perfect epithet: he feeds on draught,

And wallows in the mire, to make men laugh.

I pity him.

Sir William. 

No pity's fit for him.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Yet we'll advise him.

Sir William. 

He is my kinsman.

Lord Faulconbridge. 

Being in the pit where many do fall in,

We will both comfort him, and counsel him.




Scene IV

A noise within, crying. "Follow, follow, follow": Then enter Butler, Thomas and John 

Scarborrow with moneybags.


What shall we do now, Butler?


A man had better line a good handsome pair of gallows before his time, then be born to

do these sucklings good, their mother's milk not wrung out of their nose yet, they know

no more how to behave themselves in this honest and needful calling of purse taking than

I do to piece stockings.


This way, this way, this way.


God's foot, what shall we do now?


See if they do not quake like a trembling aspen leaf, and look more miserable than one of

the wicked elders pictured in the painted cloth, should they but come to the credit to be

arraigned for their valour, before a worshipful bench, their very looks would hang them,

and they were endited but for stealing of eggs.


Follow, follow, this way follow.





Honest Butler.


Squat, heart, squat, creep me into these bushes, lie me as close to the ground as you

would do to a wench.


How good Butler, show us how.


By the moon patroness of all purse takers, who would be troubled with such changelings?

Squat, heart, squat.


Thus Butler.


Ay so suckling, so, stir not now. If the peering rogues chance to go over you, yet stir not.

Younger brothers call you them? And have no more forecast? I am ashamed of you, these

are such whose fathers had need leave them money even to make them ready withal, for

by this hilt, they have not wit to button their sleeves without teaching; Close, squat close.

Now if the lot of hanging do fall to my share, so, then the father's old man drops for his

young masters. If it chance it chances and when it chances, heaven and the sheriff send

me a good rope; I would not go up the ladder twice for any thing. In the mean time

preventions, honest preventions do well, off with my skin, so you on the ground, and I to

this tree to escape the gallows.


Follow, follow, follow.


Do follow, if I do not deceive you, I'll bid a pox of this wit, and hang with a good grace.

Enter Sir John Harcop with two or three other with him.


Up to this wood they took. Search near, my friends, I am this morning robbed of three

hundred pound.


I am sorry there was not four to have made even money now. By the devil's horns, 'tis Sir

John Harcop!


Leave not a bush unbeaten, nor tree unturned, as sure as I was robbed, the youths went

this way.


There's nobody, I perceive, but may lie at some time; for one of them climbed this way.


Stand, I hear a voice, and here's an owl in an ivy bush.


You lie, 'tis an old serving-man in a nut-tree.


Sirrah, Sir, what make you in that tree?


Gathering of nuts, that such fools as you are may crack the shells, and I eat the kernels.


What fellow's that?


Sir John Harcop, my noble Knight, I am glad of thy good health; you bear thy age fair,

you keep a good house; I have fed at thy board, and been drunk in thy buttery.


But Sirrah, what made you in that tree?

My man and I at foot of yonder hill

Were by three knaves robbed of three hundred pound.


A shrewd loss Sir, but thy good worship may now see the fruit of being miserable: you

will ride but with one man to save horse meat and man's meat at thy inn at night, and lose

three hundred pound in a morning.


Sirrah, I say I have lost three hundred pound.



And I say Sir, I wish all miserable knights might be served so: for had you kept half a

dozen tall fellows, as a man of thy coat should do, they would have helped now to keep

thy money.


But tell me Sir, why do you lurk in that tree?


Marry, I will tell you Sir, coming to the top of the hill where you (right worshipful) were

robbed at the bottom, & seeing some a scuffling together, my mind straight gave me there

were knaves abroad. Now Sir, I, knowing myself to be old, tough, and unwieldy, not

being able to do as I would, as much as to say, rescue you (right worshipful), I, like an

honest man, one of the king's allied people, and a good subject...


’A says well Sir.


Got me up to the top of that tree: The tree (if it could speak) would

bear me witness, that there I might see which way the knaves took, then to tell you of it,

and you right worshipfully to send hue and cry after them.


Was it so?


Nay 'twas so Sir.


Nay then I tell you they took into this wood.


And I tell you (setting thy worth, knighthood aside) he lies in his throat that says so. Had

not one of them a white frock? Did they not bind thy worship's knighthood by the

thumbs? Then footed you and the fool thy man, back to back?


He says true.


Why then so truly, came not they into this wood, but took over the lawns, and left Winno

steeple on the left hand.


It may be so, by this they are out of reach.

Well, farewell it.


Ride with more men, good knight.


It shall teach me wit.

Exit Harcop with followers.


So, if this be not played a weapon beyond a scholar's prize, let me be hissed at. Now to

the next. Come out you hedgehogs.


O Butler, you deserve to be chronicled for this.


Do not belie me. If I had my right I deserve to be hanged for it. But come, down with thy

dust, our morning's purchase.


Here 'tis, you have played well, you deserve two shares in it.


Three hundred pounds, a pretty breakfast. Many a man works hard all his days and never

sees half the money. But come, though it be badly got, it shall be better bestowed. But do

you hear, gallants, I have not taught you this trade to get your livings by. Use it not, for if

you do, though I escaped by the nut tree, be sure you'll speed by the rope: but for thy

pains at this time, there's a hundred pounds for you. How you shall bestow it, I'll give you

instructions. But do you hear, look you go not to thy gilles, thy punks, and thy cock-tricks

with it, if I hear you do: as I am an honest youth, though I helped you now out of the

briers, I'll be a means yet to help you to the gallows. How the rest shall be employed I

have determined, and by the way I'll make you acquainted with it.

To steal is bad, but taken where is store,

The fault's the less, being done to help the poor.




Scene V

Enter Ilford, Wentloe, and Bartley, Ilford having a letter in his hand.


Sure I have said my prayers, and lived virtuously a late, that this good fortune's befallen

me. Look gallants: I am sent for to come down to my father's burial.


But do you mean to go?


Truth no, I'll go down to take possession of his land, let the country bury him and the

will. I'll stay here a while, to save charge at his funeral.


And how do you feel thyself, Frank- now thy father is dead?



As I did before, with my hands, how else should I feel my self? But I'll tell you news,



What's that? Do you mean now to serve God?


Faith partly, for I intend shortly to go to church, and from thence do faithful service to

one woman.

Enter Butler.


Good, I have met my flesh-hooks together.



What, do you mean to be married?


Ay mongrel, married.


That's bait for me.


I will now be honestly married.


It's impossible, for you have been a whoremaster these seven years.


'Tis no matter, I will now marry, and to some honest woman too, and so from hence her

virtues shall be a countenance to my vices.


What shall she be, pray?



No lady, no widow, nor no waiting gentlewoman, for under protection ladies may larder

their husbands' heads, widows will woodcocks make, & chambermaids of service learn

that which they'll never forsake.


Who will thou wed then, pray?


To any maid, so she be fair. To any maid, so she be rich

To any maid so she be young: and to any maid...


So she be honest?


Faith, it’s no great matter for her honesty, for in these days, that's a dowry out of request.


From these craves will I gather sweetness: wherein I'll imitate the bee, that sucks her

honey, not from the sweetest flowers, but the bitterest: So these having been the means to

beggar my master, shall be the helps to relieve his brothers and sister.


To whom shall I now be a suitor?


Fair fall ye, gallants.


Nay, and she be fair she shall fall sure enough. Butler, how is it good Butler?


Will you be made gallants?


Ay, but not willingly cuckolds, though we are now talking about wives.



Let thy wives agree of that after; will you first be richly married?


How Butler: richly married?


Rich in beauty, rich in purse, rich in virtue, rich in all things. But mum, I'll say nothing I

know of two or three rich heirs. But cargo, my fiddlestick cannot play without rosin:





Do you not know me, Butler?


For kex, dried kex, that in summer have been so liberal to fodder other men's cattle, and

Scarborrow have enough to keep thy own in winter. Mine are precious cabinets, and must

have precious jewels put into them, and I know you to be merchants of stockfish, and not

men for my market; then vanish.


Come, ye old madcap you, what need all this? Cannot a man have been a little whore-

master in his youth, but you must upbraid him with it, and tell him of his defects, which

when he is married, his wife shall find in him? Why my father's a dead man now, who by

his death has left me the better part of a thousand a year.


Tut, she of Lancashire has fifteen hundred.


Let me have her then, good Butler.


And then she the bright beauty of Leicestershire has a thousand, nay thirteen hundred a

year, at least.


Or let me have her, honest Butler.


Besides, she the most delicate, sweet-countenanced, black browed gentlewoman in

Northamptonshire, in substance equals the best of them.


Let me have her then.


Or I.


Or I, good Butler.


You were best play the parts of right fools, and most desperate whore-masters, and go

together by the ears for them ere ye see them. But they are the most rare-featured, well-

faced, excellent-spoken, rare-qualitied, virtuous, and worthy-to-be admired gentlewoman.


And rich, Butler?


(Ay, that must be one, though they want all the rest.) And rich, gallants, as are from the

utmost parts of Asia, to these present confines of Europe.


And wilt thou help us to them, Butler?


Faith, 'tis to be doubted, for precious pearl will hardly be bought without precious stones,

and I think there's Scarborrow one indifferent to be found, betwixt you three: yet since

there is some hope ye may prove honest, as by the death of thy fathers you are proved

rich, walk severally, for I knowing thee all three to be courteous tug-muttons will not

trust you with the sight of each other’s beauty but will severally, talk with you, and since

you have deigned in this needful portion of wedlock to be ruled by me, Butler, will most

bountifully provide wives for you generally.


Why that is honestly said.


Why so, and now first to thee, Sir Knight


God mercy.


You see this couple of abominable woodcocks here.


A pox on them, absolute coxcombs.


You heard me tell them I had intelligence to give of three gentlewomen.




Now indeed Sir I have but the performance of one.




And her I do intend for you, only for you.


Honest Butler.


Now Sir, she being but lately come to this town, and so nearly watched by the jealous

eyes of her friends, she being a rich heir, lest she should be stolen away by some

dissolute prodigal, or desperate-estated spendthrift, as you have been, Sir...


O but that's past, Butler.


True I know it, and intend now but to make use of them, flatter with them with hopeful

promises, and make them needful instruments.


To help me to the wench.


You have hit it, which thus must be effected: first, by keeping close thy purpose.




Also concealing from them the lodging, beauty and riches of thy new, but admirable





Of which thy following happiness if they should know, either in envy of thy good, or

hope of their own advancement, they'd make our labours known to the gentlewoman's

uncles, and so our benefit be frustrate.


Admirable Butler.


Which done, also but this, being as you shall be brought into her company, and by my

praising thy virtues you get possession of her love one morning step to the tower, or to

make all sure, hire some stipendiary priest for money. For money in these days, what will

not be done? And what will not a man do for a rich wife? And with him make no more

ado but marry her in her lodging and being married, lie with her and spare not.


Do they not see us, do they not see us? Let me kiss you, let me kiss you Butler, let but

this be done, and all the benefit, requital and happiness I can promise you for't, shall be

this: I'll be thy rich master, and you shall carry my purse.

Butler. (whispers) 

Enough. Meet me at her lodging some half an hour hence: hark she lies.


I ha't.


Fail not.


Will I live?


I will but shift of these two rhinoceros...


Pigeons, pigeons, a couple of gulls.


With some discourse of hope to wife them two, and be with thee straight.


Blessed day! My love shall be thy cushion, honest Butler.


So now to my other gallants.


O Butler, we have been in passion at thy tediousness.


Why do you look? I had all this talk for thy good.


You had?


For you know the knight is but a scurvy-proud-prating-prodigal, licentious and



An ass, an ass, an ass.


Now you heard me tell him I had three wenches in store.


And he would have had them all.


Hear me, though he may live to be an ox, he has not now so much as the goat in him, but

only hopes for one of the three; when indeed I have but two, and knowing thee to be men

of more virtue, and dearer in my respect, intend them to be thine.



We shall honour thee.


But how, Butler?


I am now going to their place of residence, situated in the choicest place in the city, and

at the sign of the wolf just against Goldsmith's row where you shall meet me; but ask not

for me, only walk to and fro. To avoid suspicion you may spend some conference with

the shopkeepers’ wives; they have seats built purposely for such familiar entertainment,

where, from a bay window which is opposite, I will make you known to thy desired

beauties, commend the good parts thou hast.


By the mass mine are very few.


And win a kind of desire, as women are soon won to make you be beloved where you

shall first kiss, then woo, at length wed, and at last bed, my noble hearts.


Both Wentloe and Bartley. 

O Butler.


Wenches, bona robas, blessed beauties, without colour or counterfeit. Away, put on thy

best clothes and get thee to the barbers. Curl up thy hair, walk with the best struts you

can, thou shall see more at the window, and I have vowed to make thee.


Wilt thou?


Both fools, and I'll want of my wit but I'll do it.


We will live together as fellows.


As brothers.


As arrant knaves if I keep you company.

O, the most wretched season of this time,

These men like fish do swim within one stream,

Yet they'd eat one another, making no conscience

To drink with them they'd poison. No offence

Betwixt their thoughts and actions have control,

But headlong run, like an unbiased bowl;

Yet I will throw them on, but like to him,

At play knows how to lose, and when to win.

Enter Thomas and John Scarborrow.




O, are you come?

And fit as I appointed, so, 'tis well, you know your cues, and have instructions how to

bear thyselves. All, all is fit, play but thy part, thy states from hence are firm.



What shall I term this creature, not a man?

Betwixt this Butler leads Ilford in.

He's not of mortal's temper but he's one,

Made all of goodness, though of flesh and bone.

O brother, brother, but for that honest man,

As near to misery had been our breath,

As where the thundering pellet strikes is death,


Ay, my shift of shirts and change of clothes know it.


Well tell of him, like bells whose music rings

One Coronation day for joy of Kings,

That has preserved their steeples not like tolls,

That summons living tears for the dead souls.

Enter Butler and Ilford above.


God's precious Sir, the hell Sir, even as you had new kissed, and were about to court her,

if her uncles had not come.


A plague on you, spit out.


But 'tis no matter Sir; stay here in this upper chamber and I'll stay beneath with her. 'Tis

ten to one you shall hear them talk now of the greatness of her possessions, the care they

have to see her well bestowed, the admirableness of her virtues, all which for all their

coming, shall be but happiness ordained for you, and by my means be thy inheritance.


Then you'd shift them away, and keep from the sight of them.


Have I not promised to make you?


You have.


Go to then, rest here with patience, and be confident in my trust; only in my absence, you

may praise God for the blessedness you have to come, and say thy prayers if you will. I'll

but prepare her heart for entertainment of thy love, dismiss them, for thy free access, and

return straight.


Honest, blessed, natural friend, you deal with me like a brother, Butler.


Act IV

Scene I


Sure heaven has reserved this man to wear grey hairs to do me good. Now will I listen,

listen close, and suck in her uncle's words with a rejoicing ear.


As we were saying, brother,

Where shall we find a husband for my niece?


Marry she shall find one here though you little know it; thanks,

Thanks, honest Butler.


She is left rich in money, plate, and jewels.


Comfort, comfort to my soul.


Has all her manor houses richly furnished.


Good, good, I'll find employment for them.


Speak loud enough, that he may hear you.


I take her state to be about a thousand pounds a year.


And that which my father has left me, will make it about fifteen hundred; admirable.


In debt to no man; then must our natural care be

As she is wealthy, ours is to see her married well.


And that she shall be as well as the priest can; he shall not

Leave out a word on it.


I think she has...


What a God's name?


About four thousand pound in her great chest.


And I'll find a vent for it I hope.


She is virtuous, and she is fair.


And were she foul, being rich, I would be glad of her.


Pisht, pisht.


Come, we'll go visit her, but with this care,

That to no spendthrift we do marry her.


Act IV

Scene II



You may chance be deceived, old grey beards. Here's he that will spend some of it.

Thanks, thanks, honest Butler; now do I see the happiness of my future estate. I walk as

to tomorrow, being the day after my marriage, with my fourteen men in livery cloaks

after me, and step to the wall in some chief street of the city, though I have no occasion to

use it apart from that the shop keepers may take notice of how many followers stand bare

to me. And yet in this latter age, the keeping of men being not in request, I will turn my

aforesaid fourteen into two pages and two coaches, I will get myself into grace at court,

run headlong into debt, and then look sturdily upon the city. I will walk you into the

presence in the afternoon having put on a richer suit than I wore in the morning and call

`boy' or `sirrah'. I will have the grace of some great lady though I pay for it, and at the

next triumphs run a tilt, that when I run my course, though I break not my lance she may

whisper to her self, looking upon my self, well run my knight. I will now keep great

horses, scorning to have a queen to keep me; indeed I will practise all the gallantry in

use, for by a wife comes all my happiness.

Enter Butler.


Now Sir, you have heard her uncles, and how do you like them?


O, but they have made good thy words, and I am ravished with them.


And having seen and kissed the gentlewoman, how do you like her?


O Butler, beyond discourse, she's a paragon for a prince, so a fit implement for a

gentleman, beyond my element.


Well then, since you like her, and by my means, she shall like you, nothing rests now but

to have you married.


True, Butler, but withal to have her portion.


Tut, that's sure thine when you are married once, for 'tis hers by inheritance, but do you

love her?


O, with my soul.


Have you sworn as much?


To you, to her, and have called heaven to witness.


How shall I know that?


Butler, here I protest, I'll make vows irrevocable.


Upon thy knees.


Upon my knees, with my heart and soul I love her.


Will live with her?


Will live with her.


Marry her and maintain her?


Marry her and maintain her.


For her forsake all other women?


Nay, for her forswear all other women.


In all degrees of love?


In all degrees of love, either to court, kiss, give private favours, or use private means, I'll

do nothing that married men being close whoremasters do, so I may have her.


And yet you have been an open whoremaster, I will not believe you until I hear you

swear as much in the way of contract to herself, and call me to be a witness.


By heaven, by earth, by hell, by all that man can swear, I will, so I may have her.



Thus at first sight, rash men to women swear,

When such oaths are broken, heaven grieves and sheds a tear.

But she's come, ply her, ply her.

Enter Scarborrow's sister.


Kind mistress, as I protested, so again I vow, faith I love you.


And I am not, Sir, so uncharitable,

To hate the man that loves me.


Love me then,

He who loves you as angels loves good men,

Who wish them to live with them forever,

In that high bliss whom hell cannot dissever.


I'll steal away and leave them, so wise men do,

Whom they would match, let them have leave to woo.

Exit Butler


Mistress, I know thy worth is beyond my desert, yet by my praising of thy virtues, I

would not have you as women use to do, become proud.


None of my affections are pride's children, or akin to them.


Can you love me then?


I can, for I love all the world, but am in love with none.


Yet be in love with me, let thy affections

Combine with mine, and let our souls

Like turtles have a mutual sympathiser,

Who love so well, that they together die.

Such is my life, which covets to expire,

If it should lose thy love.


May I believe you?


In truth you may,

Thy life's my life, thy death my dying day.


Sir the commendations I have received from Butler of thy birth and worth, together with

the judgement of my own eye, bid me believe and love you.


O seal it with a kiss,

Blessed however my life had never joy 'til this.

Enter Wentloe, and Bartley beneath.


Hereabout is the house sure.


We cannot mistake it, for here's the sign of the wolf and the bay window.

Enter Butler above.


What, so close? 'Tis well, I have shifted away thy uncle's mistress, but see the spite, Sir

Francis, if yonder same couple of smelly smocks, Wentloe and Bartley, had not sent after



A pox on them! What shall we do then, Butler?


What but be married straight, man?


Ay but how, Butler?


Tut, I never fail at a dead list, for to perfect thy bliss, I have provided you a priest.


Where, pray Butler, where?


Where but beneath in her chamber? I have filled his hands with coin, and he shall tie

you fast with words, he shall close thy hands in one, and then do clasp thy self into her

sheets and spare not.


O sweet.


Exeunt Ilford with Scarborrow's Sister.


Act IV

Scene II


Down, down, 'tis the only way for you to get up.

Thus in this task, for others' good I toil.

And she kind Gentlewoman weds herself,

Having been Scarborrow wooed, and here her thoughts,

Have learned to love him, that being her husband,

She may relieve her brothers in their wants,

She marries him to help her nearest kin;

I make the match, and hope it is no sin.


’Sfut it is scurvy walking for us so near the two counters, would he would come once.


By the mass he's yonder: now, Butler.


O Gallants, are you here? I have done wonders for you, commended you to the

Gentlewomen, who, having taken note of thy good legs and good faces, have a liking to

you, meet me beneath.



Happy Butler.


They are thine, and you are theirs, meet me beneath I say.

By this they are wed, ay and perhaps have bedded.

Exit Wentloe and Bartley.

Now follows whether, knowing she is poor,

He'll swear he loved her as he swore before.

Exit Butler

Act IV

Scene III


Enter Ilford with Scarborrow's sister.


Ho Sirrah, who would have thought it? I perceive now a woman may be a maid, be

married, and lose her maidenhead, and all in half and an hour; and how dost like me now,



As does befit thy servant and thy wife,

That owe you love and duty all my life.


And there shall be no love lost, nor service neither; I'll do you service at board, and you

shall do me service in bed. Now must I, as young married men use to do, kiss my portion

out of my young wife. You are my sweet rogue, my lamb, my piglet, my play-fellow, my

pretty, pretty any thing, come, a buss, pray you, so 'tis my kind heart, and wants you

what now?


Not until you tell me Sir.


I have got you with child in my conscience, and like a kind husband, methinks I breed it

for you. For I am already sick at my stomach and long extremely. Now must you be my

helpful physician, and provide for me.


Even to my blood,

What's mine is thine, to gain thy peace or good.


What a kind soul is this, could a man have found a greater content in a wife, if he should

have sought through the world for her? Pray heart as I said, I long, and in good truth I do,

and methinks thy first child will be born without a nose, if I lose my longing; 'tis but for

a trifle too, yet methinks it will do me no good unless you effect it for me. I could take

thy keys myself, go into thy closet, and read over the deeds and evidences of thy land,

and in reading over them, rejoice I had such blessed fortune to have so fair a wife with so

much endowment, and then open thy chests, and survey thy plate, jewels, treasure. But a

pox on it ! All will do me no good, unless you effect it for me.


Sir, I will show you all the wealth I have,

Of coin, of jewels, or possessions.


Good gentle heart, I'll give you another buss for that, for that give you a new gown

tomorrow morning, by this hand; do you but dream what stuff and what fashion you will

have it on to night.


The land I can endow you with, is my love,

The riches I possess for you is love,

A treasure greater than is land or gold;

It cannot be forfeited, and it shall never be sold.


Love, I know that, and I'll answer you love for love in abundance: but come, pray you,

come, let's see these deeds and evidences, this money, plate, and jewels; wilt have thy

child born without a nose, if you be so careless. Spare not, why, my little frappet, you, I

heard thy uncles talk of thy riches, that you have hundreds a year, several Lordships,

Manor houses, thousands of pounds in thy great chests, jewels, plate, and rings in thy

little box.


And for those riches you did marry me.


Truth I did, as now adays bachelors do, swear I loved you, but indeed married you for

thy wealth.


Sir, I beseech you say not thy oaths were such,

So like false coin, being put into the touch,

Who bears a flourish in the outward show,

Of a true stamp, but truly are not so.

You swore me love, I gave the like to you;

Then as a ship being wedded to the sea,

Does either sail or sink even so must I,

You being the haven to which my hopes must flee.


True, chuck, I am thy haven, and harbour too,

And like a ship I took you, who brings home treasure

As you to me, the merchant ventures.


What riches I am ballast with are thine.


That's kindly said now.


If but with sand, as I am but with earth,

Being thy right of right, you must receive me,

I ha' no other lading but my love.

Which in abundance I will render you;

If other fraught you do expect my store,

I'll pay you tears, my riches, are no more.


How's this? How's this? I hope you do but jest.


I am Sister to decayed Scarborrow.




Whose substance thy enticements did consume.


Worse than an ague.


Which as you did believe so they supposed,

'Twas fitter for thyself than for another,

To keep the sister, had undone the brother.


I am gulled by this hand. An old coin catcher, and beguiled; where the pox now are my

two coaches, choice of houses, several suits, a plague on them, and I know not what? Do

you hear puppet, do you think you shall not be damned for this, to cozen a gentleman of

his hopes, and compel thyself into matrimony with a man, whether he will or no with

you? I had made a fair match in faith! Will any man buy my commodity out of my hand?

As God save me he shall have her for half the money she cost me.

Enter Wentloe, and Bartley.


O, have we met you Sir?


What, turned micher, steal a wife, and not make thy old friends acquainted with it?


A pox on her, I would you had her.



Well, God give you joy, we can hear of thy good fortune, now 'tis done, though we could

not be acquainted with it aforehand.


As that you have two thousand pounds a year.


Two or three manor houses.


A wife fair, rich, and virtuous.



Pretty in faith, very pretty.


Store of gold.


Plate in abundance.


Better, better, better.


And so many oxen, that their horns are able to store all the cuckolds in thy country.


Do not make me mad good gentlemen, do not make me mad. I could be made a cuckold

with more patience than endure this.


Foh, we shall have you turn proud now, grow disrespectful of thy ancient acquaintance;

why Butler told us of it. Who was the maker of the match for you?


A pox of his furtherance! Gentlemen, as you are Christians, vex me no more; that I am

married I confess. A plague of the fates, that wedding and hanging comes by destiny! But

for the riches she has brought, bear witness how I'll reward her.




Whore, ay and jade, witch, ill faced, stinking breath, crooked nose, worse than the devil,

and a plague on you that ever I saw you.


A comedy, a comedy.


What's the meaning of all this, is this the masque after thy marriage?


O gentlemen, I am undone, I am undone, for I am married, I that could not abide a

woman, but to make her a whore, hated all she creatures, fair and poor, swore I would

never marry but to one that was rich, and to be thus cunning. Who do you think this is,



Why thy wife, who else should it be?


That's my misfortune, that marrying her in hope she was rich, she proves to be the

beggarly sister to the more beggarly Scarborrow.




Ha, ha, ha.


Ay, you may laugh, but she shall cry as well as I for it.


Nay, do not weep.


He does but counterfeit now to delude us, he has all her portion of land, coin, plate,

jewels, and now dissembles thus lest we should borrow some money of him.


And you be kind gentlemen, lend me some. For having paid the priest, I have not so

much left in the world as will hire me a horse to carry me away from her.


But are you thus guiled in faith?


Are you sure you have eyes in thy head?


Why then, by her brother’s setting on in my conscience, who knowing you now to have

somewhat to take to, by the death of thy father, and that he has spent her portion, and his

own possessions, has laid this plot, for you to marry her, and so he to be rid of her



Nay, that's without question, but I'll be revenged of them both, for you minx. Nay 'sfut,

give them to me, or else I'll kick.


Good, sweet-


Sweet with a pox, you stink in my nose, give me thy jewels. Nay, bracelets too.


O me most miserable.


Out of my sight, ay and out of my doors, for now, what's within this house is mine, and

for thy brother:

He made this match, in hope to do you good,

And I wear this for which, shall draw his blood.


A brave resolution.


In which we will second you.


Away, whore, out of my doors, whore.


O grief that poverty should have that power to tear

Men from themselves, though they wed, bed, and swear.

Exit with Wentloe and Bartley.


Act IV

Scene IV

Enter Thomas and John Scarborrow, with Butler.


How now, sister?


Undone, undone.


Why, Mistress, how is it? How is it?


My husband has forsaken me.


O perjury.


Has taken my jewels, and my bracelets from me.


Vengeance, I played the thief for the money that bought them.


Left me distressed, and thrust me forth a doors.


Damnation on him, I will hear no more,

But for his wrong revenge me on my brother,

Degenerate, and was the cause of all,

He spent our portion, and I'll see his fall.


O but brother.


Persuade me not.

All hopes are shipwrecked, misery comes on,

The comfort we did look from him is frustrate,

All means, all maintenance, but grief is gone,

And all shall end by his destruction.



I'll follow and prevent what in this heat may happen.

His want makes sharp his sword, too great's the ill

If that one brother should another kill.



And what will you do, Mistress?


I'll sit me down, sigh loud instead of words,

And wound my self with grief as they with swords.

And for the sustenance that I should eat,

I'll feed on grief, 'tis woe's best relished meat.


Good heart, I pity you,

You shall not be so cruel to thyself.

I have the poor serving man's allowance,

Twelve pence a day to buy me sustenance;

One meal a day I'll eat, the other fast,

To give thy wants relief. And, Mistress,

Be this some comfort to thy miseries:

I'll have thin cheeks, ere you shall have wet eyes.


Act IV

Scene V

Enter Scarborrow.

What is prodigality? Faith, like a brush

That wears himself to flourish others' clothes,

And having worn his heart even to the stump,

He's thrown away like a deformed lump.

O such am I; I have spent all the wealth

My ancestors did purchase, made others brave

In shape and riches, and myself a knave.

For though my wealth raised some to paint their door,

'Tis shut against me, saying I am but poor.

Nay, even the greatest arm, whose hand has grasped

My presence to the eye of majesty, shrinks back;

His fingers clutch, and like to lead,

They are heavy to rise up my state, being dead.

By which I find spendthrifts, and such am I,

Like strumpets flourish, but are foul within,

And they like snakes, know when to cast their skin.

Enter Thomas.


Turn, draw, and die, I come to kill you.


What's he that speaks like sickness? O, is it you?

Sleep still, you cannot move me; fare you well.


Think not my fury slakes so, or my blood

Can cool itself to temper by refusal,

Turn or you die.




I do not wish to kill you like a slave,

That taps men in their cups, and broaches their hearts,

Ere with a warning piece they have woken their ears,

I would not like to powder shoot you down

To a flat grave, ere you had thought to frown.

I am no coward, but in manly terms,

And fairest oppositions vow to kill you.


From whence proceeds this heat?


From sparkles bred by you, those like a villain.




I'll hallow it in thine ears until thy soul quakes to hear it,

That like a villain has undone thy brothers.


Would that you were not so near me, yet farewell.


By nature, and her laws make us akin,

As near as are these hands, or sin to sin.

Draw and defend thyself, or I'll forget

You are a man.


Would you were not my brother.


I disclaim them.


Are we not offspring of one parent, wretch?


I do forget it, pardon me the dead,

I should deny the pains you bid for me.

My blood grows hot for vengeance. You have spent

My live’s revenues that our parents purchased.


O do not wrack me with remembrance on it.


You have made my life a beggar in this world,

And I will make you bankrupt of thy breath.

You have been so bad, the best I can give,

You are a devil, not with men to live.


Then take a devil's payment.

Here they make a pass one upon another, when at Scarborrow's back comes in 

Ilford, Wentloe, and Bartley.


He's here; draw, gentlemen.

Wentloe, Bartley. 

Die, Scarborrow.


Girt round with death.


How set upon by three? 'Sfut fear not brother: What cowards; three to one, slaves, worse

than fencers that wear long weapons. You shall be fought withal. You shall be fought


Here the brothers join, drive the rest out, and return.


Brother, I thank you, for you now have been

A patron of my life; forget the sin

I pray you, with my loose and wasteful hours,

Has made against thy fortunes; I repent them,

And wish I could new join and strengthen thy hopes,

Though with indifferent ruin of my own.

I have a many sins, the thought of which

Like finished needles prick me to the soul,

But find thy wrongs to have the sharpest point.

If penitence thy losses might repair,

You should be rich in wealth, and I in care.


I do believe you Sir, but I must tell you,

Evils that are against another done,

Repentance makes no satisfaction

To him that feels the smart. Our father, Sir,

Left in thy trust my portion. You have spent it,

And suffered me (whilst you in riot's house,

A drunken tavern, spilled my maintenance

Perhaps upon the ground with overflown cups,

Like birds in hardest winter half starved, to fly)

And pick up any food lest I should die.


I pray you let us be at peace together.


At peace for what? For spending my inheritance?

By yonder sun that every soul has life by,

As sure as you have life I'll fight with you.


I'd not be moved in to it.


I'll kill you then, were you now Clare's,

Within thy mother's, wife's, or children's arms.


Would you commit homicide? Are you so degenerate?

Then let my blood grow hot.


For it shall cool.


To kill rather than be killed is manhood's rule.

Enter John Scarborrow.


Stay, let not thy wraths meet.


Heart, what brings you here?


Say who are you, or you? Are you not one,

That Scarborrow can make a fit distinction

Betwixt each other? Are you not brothers?


I renounce him.


Shall not need.


Give way.


Have at you.


Who stirs, which of you both has strength within his arms

To wound his own breast? Who's so desperate,

To damn himself by killing himself?

Are you not both one flesh?


Heart, give me way.


Be not a bar betwixt us, or by my sword

I'll meet thy grave out.


O do, for God's sake, do.

'Tis happy death, if I may die and you

Not murder one another. O do but hark,

When does the sun and moon born in one frame

Contend, but they breed earthquakes in men's hearts?

When any star prodigiously appears,

Tells it not fall of kings or fatal years?

And then if brothers fight, what may men think?

Sin grows so high, 'tis time the world should sink.


My heart grows cool again, I wish it not.


Stop not my fury, or by my life I swear,

I will reveal the robbery we have done,

And take revenge on you,

That hinders me to take revenge on him.


I yield to that, but never consent to this.

I shall then die as my own sin affords,

Fall by the law, not by my brother's swords.


Then by that light that guides me, here I vow

I'll straight to Sir John Harcop, and make known

We were the two that robbed him.


Pray do.


Sin has his shame, and you shall have thy due.



Thus have I shown the nature of a brother,

Though you have proved unnatural to me.

He's gone in here to publish out the theft,

Which want and thy unkindness forced us to,

If now I die that death and public shame,

Is a cursive to thy soul, blot to thy name.


Act V

Scene I


O 'tis too true; there's not a thought I think

But must partake thy grief, and drink

A relish of thy sorrow and misfortune.

With weight of others tears I am overborne,

That Scarborrow's an Atlas to hold up my own,

And all too good for me. A happy creature

In my cradle, and have made myself

The common curse of mankind by my life,

Undone my brothers, made them thieves for bread,

And begot pretty children to live beggars;

O conscience, how you are stung to think upon it?

My brothers into shame must yield their blood,

My babes at others’ stirrups beg their food,

Or else turn thieves too, and be choked for it,

Die a dog's death; be perched upon a tree,

Hang betwixt heaven and earth, as fit for neither,

The curse of heaven that's due to reprobates,

Descends upon my brothers, and my children,

And I am parent to it, I, I am parent to it.

Enter Butler.


Where are you, Sir?


Why do you stare? What's thy haste?


Here's fellows swarm like flies to speak with you.


What are they?


Snakes I think Sir, for they come with stings in their mouths, and their tongues are turned

to teeth too. They clawer villainously, they have eaten up thy honest name, and

honourable reputation by railing against you, and now they come to devour thy



In plainer usage, what are they? Speak.


Mantichores, monstrous beasts, enemies to mankind, that ha' double rows of teeth in

their mouths. They are usurers, they come yawning for money, and the sheriff with them

is come to serve an extent upon thy land, and then cease on thy body by force of

execution; they have besieged the house round.


So that the roof our ancestors did build

For their son's comfort, and their wives for charity,

I dare not to look out.


Besides, Sir, here are thy poor children.


Poor children they are indeed.


Come with fire and water, tears in their eyes, and burning grief in their hearts, and desire

to speak with you.


Heap sorrow upon sorrow. Tell me, are

My brothers gone to execution?

For what I did, for every heinous sin,

Sits on his soul by whom it did begin.

And so did theirs by me. Tell me withal,

My children carry moisture in their eyes,

Whose speaking drops, say "Father, thus must we

Ask our relief, or die with infamy,

For you have made us beggars". Yet when thy tale hath killed me,

To give my passage comfort from this stage,

Say all was done by enforced marriage:

My grave will then be welcome.


What shall we do, Sir?


Do as the devil does, hate panther-mankind,

And yet I lie: for devils sinners love,

When men hate men, though good like some above.

Enter Scarborrow's wife Katherine with two children.


Thy wife's come in, Sir.


You lie, I have not a wife. None can be called

True man and wife, but those whom heaven installed. Say.


O my dear husband.


You are very welcome, peace, we'll have complement.

Who are you, gentlewoman?


Sir, thy distressed wife, and these thy children.


Mine? Where, how begot:

Prove me by certain instance that's devine

That I should call them lawful, or the mine.


Were we not married, Sir?


No, though we heard the words of ceremony,

But had hands knit as felons that wear fetters

Forced upon them. For tell me, woman,

Did e'er my love with sighs entreat you mine?

Did ever I in willing conference,

Speak words made half with tears that I did love you?

Or was I ever but glad to see you as all lovers are?

No, no, you know I was not.


O me.


The more's the pity.


But when I came to church, I did there stand

All water; whose forced breach had drowned my land,

Are you my wife, or these my children?

Why 'tis impossible, for like the skies,

Without the sun's light, so look all thy eyes,

Dark, cloudy, thick, and full of heaviness.

Within my country there was hope to see

Me and my issue to be like our fathers,

Upholders of our country all our life;

Which should have been, if I had wed a wife.

Where now,

As dropping leaves in autumn you look all,

And I that should uphold you like to fall.



'Twas, nor, shall be my fault, heaven bear me witness.


You lie! Strumpet, you lie!


O Sir.


Peace saucy tack. Strumpet, I say you lie,

For wife of mine you art not, and these thy bastards

Whom I begot of you, with this unrest,

That bastards born, are born not to be blessed


On me pour all thy wrath, but not on them.


On you, and them, for 'tis the end of lust,

To scourge itself, heaven grip to be just.









What heart not pities this?


Even in thy cradle, you were accurst of heaven,

You an adulteress in thy married arms.

And they that made the match, bawds to thy lust:

Ay, now you hang the head, should have done so before,

Then these had not been bastards, you a whore.


I cannot brook no longer; Sir you do not well in this.


Ha, slave?


'Tis not the aim of gentry to bring forth

Such harsh unrelished fruit unto their wives,

And to their pretty, pretty children by my truth.


How rascal?


Sir I must tell you, thy progenitors

Two of the which these years were servant to,

Had not such mists before their understanding,

Thus to behave themselves.


And you'll control me, Sir?


Ay, I will.


You rogue.


Ay 'tis I will tell you 'tis ungentle done

Thus to defame thy wife, abuse thy children,

Wrong them, you wrong thyself, are they not thine?


Pretty, pretty impudence in faith,


Her whom you are bound to love, to rail against,

These whom you are bound to keep, spurning like dogs,

And you were not my master, I would tell you.


What, slave?


Put up thy bird-spit, tut I fear it not,

In doing deeds so base, so vile as these,

'tis but a kna, kna, kna.




Tut howsoever, 'tis a dishonest part,

And in defence of these I throw off duty.


Good Butler.


Peace honest Mistress, I will say you are wronged,

Prove it upon him, even in his blood, his bones,

His guts, his maw, his throat, his entrails.


You renegade of threescore.


'Tis better then a knave of three and twenty.


Patience be my buckler,

As not to file my hands in villain's blood;

You knave, slave, trencher-groom,

Who is thy master?


You, if you were a master.


Off with thy coat then, get you for't a' doors.


My coat, Sir.



Ay, thy coat, slave.


'Sfut when you ha't, 'tis but a thread-bare coat,

And there 'tis for you: know that I scorn

To wear his livery is so warrier born,

And live so base a life; old as I am,

I'll rather be a beggar than thy man,

And there's thy service for you.

Exit Butler.


Act V

Scene II


Away, out of my door: away. So, now thy champion's gone, minx, you had better have

gone quick into thy grave-


O me, that am no cause of it.


Than have suborned that slave to lift his hands against me.



O me, what shall become of me?


I'll teach you tricks for this; have you a companion?

Enter Butler.


My heart not suffers me to leave my honest Mistress and her pretty children.


I'll mark you for a strumpet, and thy bastards.


What will you do to them, Sir?


The devil in thy shape comes back again.


No, but an honest servant, Sir, will take this coat, and wear it with this sword to safeguard

these, and pity them, and I have woe for you, but will not suffer the husband viper-like to

prey on them that love her, and cherish him as they have you.




I will not humour you, fight with you, and lose my life, or these shall taste thy wrong that

you are bound to love.


Out of my doors, slave.


I will not, but will stay and wear this coat,

And do you service whether you will or no.

I'll wear this sword too, and be champion,

To fight for her in spite of any man.


You shall? You shall be my master, Sir?


No, I desire it not,

I'll pay you duty even upon my knee,

But lose my life, ere these oppressed I'll see.


Yes goodman slave, you shall be master,

Lie with my wife, and get more bastards, do, do, do.


O me.


Turns the world upside down, that men forebear their masters, it does, it does.

For even as Judas sold his Master Christ, men buy and sell their wives at highest price,

What will you give me? What will you give me? What will you give me?


O, Mistress,

My soul weeps, though my eyes are dry,

To see his fall and thy adversity,

Some means I have left, which I'll relieve you with,

Into thy chamber, and if comfort be akin

To such great grief, comfort thy children.


I thank you Butler; heaven when he please

Send death unto the troubled a blessed ease.

Exit with children.


Act V

Scene III


In truth I know not if it be good or ill,

That with this endless toil I labour thus.

'Tis but the old times ancient conscience

That would do no man hurt, that makes me do it.

If it were sin that I do pity these,

If it were sin I have relieved his brothers,

Have played the thief with them to get their food,

And made a luckless marriage for his sister,

Intended for her good, heaven pardon me.

But if so, I am sure they are greater sinners

That made this match, and were unhappy men,

For they caused all, and may heaven pardon them.

Enter Sir William Scarborrow.

Sir William. 

Who's within here?


Sir William, kindly welcome.

Sir William. 

Where is my kinsman Scarborrow?


Sooth he's within Sir, but not very well.

Sir William. 

His sickness?


The hell of sickness, troubled in his mind.

Sir William. 

I guess the cause of it,

But cannot now intend to visit him,

Great business for my sovereign has me hence,

Only this Letter from his Lord and guardian to him,

Whose inside I do guess tends to his good.

At my return I'll see him, so farewell.



Act V

Scene III


Whose inside I do guess turns to his good?

He shall not see it now then, for men's minds

Perplexed like his, are like land-troubling-winds,

Who have no gracious temper.

Enter John Scarborrow.


O Butler.


What's the fright now?


Help straight, or on the tree of shame

We both shall perish for the robbery.


What, is it revealed man?


Not yet good Butler, only my brother Thomas

In spleen to me, that would not suffer him

To kill our elder brother, had undone us

Is riding now to Sir John Harcop straight, to disclose it.


Heart, who would rob with sucklings?

Where did you leave him?


Now taking horse to ride to Yorkshire.


I'll stay his journey lest I meet a hanging.


Enter Scarborrow.


I'll parley with the devil: ay, I will,

He gives his counsel freely, and the cause

He for his clients pleads, goes always with them,

He in my cause shall deal then: and I'll ask him

Whether a cormorant may have stuffed chests

And see his brother starve: why he'll say ay,

The less they give, the more I gain thereby.

Enter Butler.


Their souls, their souls, their souls.

How now master? Nay, you are my master?

Are my wife's sheets warm? Does she kiss well?


Good Sir.


Foh, make not strange, for in these days,

There's many men lie in their masters' sheets,

And so may you in mine. And yet; thy business, Sir?


There's one in civil habit Sir, would speak with you.


In civil habit?


He is of seemly rank, Sir, and calls himself

By the name of Doctor Baxter of Oxford.


That man undid me; he did blossoms blow

Whose fruit proved poison, though 'twas good in show,

With him I'll parley, and disrobe my thoughts

Of this wild frenzy that becomes me no.

A table, candles, stools, and all things fit,

I know he comes to chide me, and I'll hear him,

With our sad conference we will call up tears,

Teach doctors rules, instruct succeeding years.

Usher him in:

Heaven spare a drop from thence where's bounties throng;

Give patience to my soul, inflame my tongue.

Enter Doctor.


Good master Scarborrow.


You are most kindly welcome, sooth ye are.


I have important business to deliver you.


And I have leisure to attend thy hearing.


Sir, you know I married you.


I know you did, Sir.


At which you promised both to God and men,

Thy life unto thy spouse should like snow,

That false to comfort, not to overthrow,

And love unto thy issue should be like

The dew of heaven, that hurts not though it strike,

When heaven and men did witness and record

'Twas an eternal oath, no idle word;

Heaven being pleased therewith, blessed you with children,

And at heaven's blessings, all good men rejoice.

So that God's chair and footstool, heaven and earth

Made offering at thy nuptials as a knot

To mind you of thy vow; O break it not.


Tis very true.


Now Sir, from this thy oath and band,

Faith's pledge, and seal of conscience, you have run,

Broken all contracts, and the forfeiture

Justice has now in suit against thy soul.

Angels are made the jurors, who are witnesses

Into the oath you took, and God himself,

Maker of marriage, he that sealed the deed,

As a firm lease unto you during life,

Sits now as judge of thy transgression.

The world informs against you with this voice,

If such sins reign, what mortals can rejoice?


What then ensues to me?


A heavy doom, whose execution's

Now served upon thy conscience, that ever

You shall feel plagues that time shall not dissever.

As in a map thy eyes see all thy life,

Bad words, worse deeds, false oaths, and all the injuries

You have done unto thy soul, then comes thy wife,

Full of woes drops, and yet as full of pity,

Who though she speaks not, yet her eyes are swords

That cut thy heartstrings, and then thy children.-


O, O, O.


Who what they cannot say talk in their looks:

"You have made us up but as misfortune's books,

Whom other men may read in;" when presently,

Tasked by thyself, you are not like a thief,

Astonished at being accused, but scorched with grief,


Ay, ay, ay.


Here stands thy wife's tears.




And you fry for them; here lie thy children's wants.





For which you pine in conscience burn,

And wish you had been better, or never born.


Does all this happen to a wretch like me?


Both this and worse, thy soul eternally

Shall live in torment, though the body die.


I shall have need of drink then, Butler.


Nay all thy sins are on thy children laid,

For the offences that the father made.



Are they, Sir?


Be sure they are.

Enter Butler.






Go fetch my wife and children hither.


I will, Sir.


I'll read a letter to the doctor too, he's a divine. Ay, he's a divine.


I see his mind is troubled, and have made bold with duties to read a letter tending to his

good, have made his brothers friends: both which I will conceal until better temper. He

sends me for his wife and children, shall I fetch them?


He's a divine, and this divine did marry me, that's good, that's good,


Master Scarborrow.


I'll be with you straight, Sir.


I will obey him;

If any thing does happen that is ill,

Heaven bears me record 'tis against Butler's will.



And this divine did marry me,

Whose tongue should be the key to open truth,

As God's ambassador. Deliver, deliver, and deliver.


Master Scarborrow.


I'll be with you, straight Sir,

Salvation to afflicted consciences,

And not give torment to contented minds,

Who should be lamps to comfort out our way,

And not like firedrakesto lead men astray,

Ay, I'll be with you straight Sir.

Enter Butler.


Here's thy wife and children, Sir.


Give way then,

I had my lesson perfect, leave us here.



Yes, I will go, but I will be so near,

To hinder the mishap which I fear.

Exit Butler.


Act V

Scene IV



Now Sir, you know this gentlewoman?


Kind mistress Scarborrow,


Nay pray you keep thy seat, for you shall hear,

The same affliction you have taught me fear,

Due to thyself.


To me, Sir?


To you, Sir;

You matched me to this gentlewoman.


I know I did, Sir.


And you will say she is my wife then.


I have reason, Sir, because I married you.


O that such tongues should have the time to lie,

Who teach men how to live, and how to die!

Did not you know my soul had given my faith,

In contract to another? And yet you

Would join this loom into unlawful twists.




But Sir,

You that can see a mote within my eye,

And with a cassock blind thy own defects,

I'll teach you this, 'tis better to do ill

That's never known to us, than of self-will;

And these, all these, in thy seducing eye,

As scorning life make them be glad to die.


Me, Scarborrow?


Here will I write, that they which marry wives,

Unlawful live with strumpets all their lives.

Here will I seal the children that are born,

From wombs inconsecrate, even when their soul

Has her infusion, it registers they are foul,

And shrinks to dwell with them, and in my close,

I'll show the world, that such abortive man

Knit hands without free tongues look red like them

Stand you and you, to acts most tragic;

Heaven has dry eyes, when sin makes sinners fall.


Help, master Scarborrow,






These for thy act should die, she for my Clare,

Whose wounds stare thus upon me for revenge.

These to be rid from misery, this from sin,

And you thy self shall have a push amongst them,

That made heaven's words a packhorse to thy tongue.

Contest scripture to make evils shine like good,

And as I send you thus with worms to dwell,

Angels applaud it as a deed done well.

Enter Butler.


Stay him, stay him.

What will you do, Sir?


Make fat worms of slinking carcasses,-

What have you to do with it?

Enter Ilford and his wife, the two brothers, and Sir William Scarborrow


Look who is here, Sir.


Injurious villain that prevents me still.



They are thy brothers and alliance, Sir.


They are like full ordinance then, which once discharged,

Afar off gives a warning to my soul,

That I have done them wrong.

Sir William. 


Brother and sister. 







Hark how their words like bullets shoot me through

And tell me I have undone them, this side might say,

"We are in want, and you are the cause of it";

This points at me, bear shame into thy house;

This tongue says nothing, but her looks do tell,

She's married but as those that live in hell;

Whereby all eyes are but misfortune's pipe,

Filled full of woe by me. This feels the stripe.


Yet look, Sir,

Here are thy brothers hand in hand, which I have knit so.


And look Sir here's my husband's hand in mine,

And I rejoice in him, and he in me.

Sir William. 

I say close what is past, the way to bliss,

For they know best to mend, that knows amiss,


We kneel, forget, and say if you but love us,

You gave us grace for future.