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.