Gab.  What you—­

Gan.  Fond woman, doe not trust me, there is deathe
And undyssembld ruyne in my words. 
Make your prayrs quycklye.

Gab.  I protest unto you, As I have contyence & a soule to save—­

Gan.  That’s a fantastycke oathe; proceede, proceede.

Gab.  I did not wryte thys letter nor have seene Richard synce it was wrytten:  what was doone He & my mother wrought it.

Gan.  Shall I beleive you? are you vertuous?

Gab.  Examyne but the ende & then adjudge me.

Gan.  Then my suspytyon proves a false conceyte,
And I am wondrous glad to have it so
Because it proves you honest.  I am nowe
Agayne resolvd that Richard was a vyllayne,
And therefore am I gladd agayne, because
He hathe what he deservd & has no more.

Gab.  He did deserve your seryous contempt And is rewarded with it.

Gan.  And with deathe.

Gab.  Ha! oh is he murderd then?

Gan.  Does that amaze you? 
Yes I have murderd hym & it becomes
The gloryous parte of conquerynge my selfe,
To say hereafter, when I would relate
A storye worth attentyon, that thys hande,
Thys constant ryght hand, did deliver me
In spyghte of dottage & my naturall pittye.

Gab.  O you are falne into the bloodyest cryme That ever tyrant threatned.

Gan.  Idle feare.

Gab.  Come, y’are a vyllayne & most bloodye slave,
One that your spotted synns make odyous,
For Rychard was all good & vertuous. 
Dispayre nowe maks me honest & Ile speake
Truthe with true testymonye, for here it comes.

    Enter Eldegrade.

We twoe contryved & wrytt these charracters,
By Heaven we did; twas onlye we that spreade
The 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.