daughter?

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

HAR. Patience, good tears, and let my words have way!
Clare, my daughter! help, my servants, there!
Lift up thine eyes, and look upon thy father,
They were not born to lose their light so soon:
I did beget thee for my comforter,
And not to be the author of my care.
Why speakest thou not? some help, my servants, there!
What hand hath made thee pale? or if thine own,
What cause hadst thou, that wert thy father's joy,
The treasure of his age, the cradle of his sleep,
His all in all? I prythee, speak to me:
Thou art not ripe for death; come back again.
Clare, my Clare, if death must needs have one,
I am the fittest: prythee, let me go.
Thou dying whilst I live, I am dead with woe.

_Enter_ THOMAS _and_ JOHN SCARBOROW.

THOM. What means this outcry?

JOHN. O ruthful spectacle!

HAR. Thou wert not wont to be so sullen, child,
But kind and loving to thy aged father:
Awake, awake! if't be thy lasting sleep,
Would I had not sense for grief, nor eyes to weep.

JOHN. What paper's this? the sad contents do tell me,
My brother writ he hath broke his faith to her,
And she replies for him she hath kill'd herself.

HAR. Was that the cause that thou hast soil'd thyself
With these red spots, these blemishes of beauty?
My child, my child! was't perjury in him
Made thee so fair act now so foul a sin?
Hath[372] he deceived thee in a mother's hopes,
Posterity, the bliss of marriage?
Thou hast no tongue to answer no or ay,
But in red letters write,[373] _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![374]
And may his corpse be the physician's stage,
Which play'd upon stands not to honour'd age!
Or with diseases may he lie and pine,
Till grief wax blind his eyes, as grief doth mine!
[_Exit_.

JOHN. O good old man, made wretched by this deed,
The more thy age, more to be pitied.

_Enter_ SCARBOROW, _his wife_ KATHERINE, ILFORD,
WENTLOE, BARTLEY, _and_ BUTLER.

ILF. What, ride by the gate, and not call? that were a shame, i'faith.

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

SCAR. You bring me to my shame unwillingly.

ILF. Sha