HARCOP

Nay no parting Gentlemen: Hem. Gallants, Know old John Harcop keeps a Wineseller, Has Traveled, been at Court, known Fashions, And unto all bears habit Like your selves, The shapes of Gentlemen and men of sort. I have a health to give them ere they partly. My healths are welcome: welcome Gentlemen. Welcome infayth Sir. In youth I swild my fill at Venus cup, In stead of full draughts now I am feign to sup. Now master Scarborrow. And both agreed so. Then long may you live together, have store of sons. But son here is a man of yours is come from London. And you being Ward to him son Scarborrow, And know him great, it fits that you obey him. It dus it dus, for by and ancient law, We are born free heirs, but kept Like slaves in awe, Who are for London Gallants? Brother's to him ere long shall be my son, By wedding this young girl: You are welcome both, Nay kiss her, kiss, though that she shall Be your Brother's wife, to kiss the cheek is free. Good, good y faith, this kissings good y faith, I loved to smack it too when I was young, But Mum: they have felt thy cheek Clare, let them hear thy tongue. I guess to see this girl, shall be your sister. What? Do you borrow of your kindred Sir? you are a merry Gentleman. His absence shall not make our hearts less merry Then if we had his presence. A day ere long, Will bring him back, when one the other meets, At nooneith Church, at night between the sheets. Weel wash this chat with wine. Some wine: fill up, The sharpner of the wit, is a full cup. And so to you Sir. Nay, nay, nay, Women are weak and we must bear with them, Your frolic healths, are only fit for men, Gods precious, for his mercy, where this wench? Must all my friends and guests attend on you? Where are you Minion? That sad voice was not hers I hope: Whose this, my daughter? 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 Wertenberg thy father's Joy, The Treasure of his age, the Cradle of his sleep, His all in all? I prithee 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, prithee let me go, Thou dying while I live, I am dead with woe. Thou Wertenberg not wont to be so sullen child, But kind and loving to thy aged father: Awake, awake, Ift be thy lasting sleep, Would I had not sense for grief, nor eyes to weep. Was that the cause that thou hast soiled thy self, With these read spots, these blemishers of beauty? My child, my child, wast perjury in him, Made thee so fair, act now so foul a fin, That he deceived thee in a Mother's Hope's, Posterity, the bliss of marriage? Thou hast no tongue to answer no, or I, But in read 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 Remorceless, And may his Corpse be the Physicians stage, Which played upon, stands not to honoured Age, Or with diseases may he lie and pine, Till grief wasts blood, his eyes, as grief does mine. They do belly her that do say she's dead, She is but strayed to some by-gallery, And I must would her again. Clare, where art thou Clare? A lies that says so, Yet now I know thee, I do lie that say it, For if she be a villain Like thy self, A perjured Traitor, recreant, miscreant, Dog, a dog, a dog, has dunt. But hark what thou hast God by it, Thy wife is but a strumpet, thy children Bastards, Thy self a murderer, thy wife, accesary, Thy bed a stews, thy house a Brothel. I, made a wretched father childless. Thou the cause of it. Curse on the day that ere it was begun, For I and old man am, undone, undone. Up to this wood they took, search near my friends, I am this morn robbed of three hundred pound. Leave not a bush unbear, nor tree unsearched, as sure as I was robbed the thieves went this way. What fellows that? But sirrah: what made you in that tree? My man and I at foot of yonder hill Were by three kanues robbed of three hundred pound. Sirrah, I say I would lost three hundred pound. But tell me sir, why lurked you in that tree? Was it so. Nay then I tell thee they took into this wood. It may be so, by this they are out of reach, Well, farewell it. It shall teach me wit. Oh Sir John villain, to be troth thy self To this good creature, harmless, harmless child, This kernel hope, and comfort of my house, Without Enforcement, of thine own accord, Draw all her soul ith compass of and oath, Take that oath from her, make her for none but thee, And then betray her?