Thou the cause of it? [_To his wife_.

HAR. Curse on the day that e'er it was begun,
For I, an old man, am undone, undone. [_Exit_.

SCAR. For charity, have care upon that father,
Lest that his grief bring on a more mishap.
[_Exeunt_ THOMAS _and_ JOHN SCARBOROW.[378]
This to my arms my sorrow shall bequeath,
Though I have lost her, to the grave I'll bring;
Thou wert 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.

KATH. Thus am I left like sea-toss'd mariners.
My fortunes being no more than my distress;
Upon what shore soever I am driven,
Be it good or bad, I must account it heaven:[379]
Though married, I am reputed no wife,
Neglected of my husband, scorn'd, despis'd:
And though my love and true obedience
Lies prostrate to his beck, 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?

BUT. Toward Wakefield, where my master's living lies.

KATH. Toward Wakefield, where thy master we'll attend;
When things are at the worst, 'tis hop'd they'll mend.

_Enter_ THOMAS _and_ JOHN SCARBOROW.

THOM. How now, sister? no further forward on your journey yet?

KATH. When grief's before one, who'd go on to grief?
I'd rather turn me back to find some comfort.

JOHN. And that way sorrow's hurtfuller than this,
My brother having brought unto a grave
That murder'd body whom he call'd his wife,
And spent so many tears upon her hearse,
As would have made a tyrant to relent;
Then, kneeling at her coffin, this he vow'd
From thence he never would embrace your bed.

THOM. The more fool he.

JOHN. Never from hence acknowledge you his wife:
Where others strive t'enrich their father's name,
It should be his only aim to beggar ours,
To spend their means should be his only pride:
Which, with a sigh confirm'd, he's rid to London,
Vowing a course,[380] that by his life so foul
Men ne'er should join the hands without the soul.

KATH. All is but grief, and I am arm'd for it.

JOHN. We'll bring you on your way in hope thus strong:
Time may at length make straight what yet is wrong.

[_Exeunt_.

ACT III.

_An Inn_.

_Enter_ ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY.

WEN. He's our own, he's our own! Come, let's