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_,