_Gab_. Thys should have ceazd me sooner; let me dye. Thy pardon, _Richard_: love thats too vyolent Is evermore with some straunge myscheifs spentt. [_Dies_. _Eld_. Foule desperatyon ceaze thee, & whats worsse Dye with thy mothers last breathd heavye cursse. [_Dyes_. _Gan_. They have left a darknes so extreame behynde I cannot fynde a prayre to blesse theire soules. See here then, polytycke creature, subtyll man, Here see thy myscheife. Irreligious foole, That makst it contyence onlye when thou leavest Synns of preferment unaccomplyshed, Thou that repynst agaynst thy starrs & lucke When heaven prevents the bassnes of thy gayne; Littill thynkst thou wherefore thy gaynes will serve, Nor wherefore thy close pollycie should fayle Tyll thou forsakst it, & then, wretched clay, Thou fyndst a horsse & dogge thy betters: they Dye unperplext with sence of dyinge, thou Seest what thy sence abhorrs thy falts allowe. I feele thee comeinge, my distracted chaunge, Like an ill-favord hangman: pray thee strike, Aproatche & doe thyne offyce. _Enter Oliver_. What arte thou? _Oli_ One that will prove you _Rychard_ is a cowarde. _Gan_. Good darringe tonge, be not toe desperatt. He was your deare frend, was he not? _Oli_ Yes, had he not beene pretyous unto you, But hys muche faythe to you did make me hate hym, And he had felt it had he darrd th'incounter. _Gan_. Pray, no more, & worthy Sir, be boulde To say here stands the most afflycted soule That ever felt the mysseryes of byrthe. Make me beleive my plaugs are infynett That I may so desyer to leave my fleshe And be deliverd from theym. Wherefore, looke you: It is my mother & my systers deade, I was theire murtherer; goe tell the worlde: That paper will give satisfactyon. [_Oliver taks the letter & reads_. _Enter Didier_. O you are wellcome; are you an offycer? The captayne of the guard, I thynke. Come on: Be not affrayd, arest me, Ile submytt. Nor doe reproatche my vallor; I have darrd As much as he that durst affront the gods, But greife hathe staynd me. _Did_. What meane you, Sir? Why I am _Didier_. _Gan_. That buryed _Richard_? Oh, _Didier_, I was a barbarous wretche in kyllinge hym. Digg up his bodye, brynge it hyther, goe: Hys wounds will fall a bleedinge & the syghte Will soften my conjealed bloode, for nowe Me thynks I am not passyonate. But stay, Let all sweete rest preserve hym: I will thynke Howe reelinge in the anguyshe of hys wounds I would not heare hym when a was about To teache repentance, and that onlye thought Shall melt me into cynders. I am like The needye spendthryfte nowe, that an inforcst To make my wants knowne where I must not hope To gett releife. Releife? tys a vague hope And I will banyshe the conceyte. Come hyther, Looke uppon thys & wonder yet a littill It was my handyworke, yet nothynge neare The synne of kyllinge _Richarde_. _Oli_. Have you then slayne the noblest worthye _Richard_?