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.