e poyson of debate & stryfe betwyxt you.
On us, base man, tourne thy most bloodye edge,
For thou hast slayne the noblest inocent.

_Gan_. Thyne owne invockt cursse ceaze thee,

[_He runns at Gab., and Elde. stepps between?, & he kills both_.

_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