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