_Fal_. With all my hart; thou ever wert the spur Which prict me on to any godlinesse; And now thou doest indevor to incite Me make my parting peace with God and men. I doe confesse, even from my verie soule, My hainous sinne and grievous wickednesse Against my maker manie thousand waies: _Ab imo cordis_ I repent my selfe Of all my sinnes against his maiestie; And, heavenly father, lay not to my charge The death of poore _Pertillo_ and those men Which I suborn'd to be his murtherers, When I appeare before thy heavenlie throne To have my sentence or of life or death. _Vesu_. Amen, amen, and God continue still These mercie-moving meditations. _Allen_. And thou, great God, which art omnipotent, Powerful! enough for to redeeme our soules Even from the verie gates of gaping hell, Forgive our sinnes and wash away our faults In the sweete river of that precious blood Which thy deare sonne did shed in _Galgotha_, For the remission of all contrite soules. _Fal_. Forgive thy death, my thrice-beloved sonne. _Allen_. I doe, and, father, pardon my misdeedes Of disobedience and unthankfullnesse. _Fal_. Thou never yet wert disobedient, Unlesse I did commaund unlawfulnesse. Ungratefulnesse did never trouble thee; Thou art too bounteous thus to guerdon me. _Allen_. Come, let us kisse and thus imbrace in death. Even when you will, come, bring us to the place, Where we may consumate our wretchednesse, And change it for eternall hapinesse. [_Exeunt omnes_. [SCENE II.] _Enter Merry and Rachel to execution with Officers with Halberdes, the Hangman with a lather [sic] &c_. _Mer_. Now, sister _Rachell_, is the houre come Wherein we both must satisfie the law For _Beeches_ death and harmelesse _Winchester_. Weepe not sweete sister, for that cannot helpe: I doe confesse fore all this company That thou wert never privie to their deathes, But onelie helpest me, when the deede was done, To wipe the blood and hide away my sinne; And since this fault hath brought thee to this shame, I doe intreate thee on my bended knee To pardon me for thus offending thee. _Rach_. I doe forgive you from my verie soule, And thinke not that I shed these store of teares, For that I price my life, or feare to dye, Though I confesse the manner of my death Is much more grievous then my death it selfe; But I lament for that it hath beene said I was the author of this crueltie And did produce you to this wicked deede, Whereof God knowes that I am innocent.