Bull.
Our last Expresses speak the Rebels high,
Who have consum'd with Fire Our Town of Gloster. Enter Northumberland and Pierce.
Welcome Northumberland, what News?

North.
Health to my Liege, I have to London sent
The Heads of Spencer, Blunt and Salsbury.

Pierc.
Broccas and Scelye too are headless Trunks,
The dang'rous Chiefs of that consorted Crew
That sought your Life at Oxford.

Ross.
Our Abbot griev'd to see his Plott defeated,

Has yielded up his Body to the Grave.
But here's Carlile yet living to receive
Your Royal Doom.

Bull.
Carlile I must confess,
Thô thou hast ever bin my Enemy,
Such sparks of Honour always shin'd in Thee,
As priviledg Thee from our Justice now;
Choose out some secret place, some reverend Cell,
There live in peace, and we shall not disturb
The Quiet of thy Death—what suddain Damp
Congeals my Blood—ha Exton? then comes Mischief. Enter Exton and Servants bearing in a Coffin.

Ext.
Great Sir, within this Coffin I present
Thy bury'd Fear, possess the Crown secure,
Which breathless Richard never more will claim.

Bull.
Exton I thank thee not, for thou hast wrought
A Deed of Slaughter fatal for my Peace,
Which Thou and I, and all the Land shall rue.

Ext.
From your own Mouth, my Lord, did I this Deed.

Bull.
They love not Poyson that have need of Poyson,
Nor do I Thee, I hate his Murderer.
Tho' I did wish him Dead: Hell thank thee for it,
And guilt of Royal Blood be thy Reward;
Cursing and Curst go wander through the World,
Branded like Cain for all Mankind to shun Thee.
Wake Richard, wake, give me my Peace agen,
And I will give Thee back thy ravisht Crown.
Come Lords prepare to pay your last Respects
To this great Hearse, and help a King to Mourn
A King's untimely Fall: O tort'ring Guilt!
In vain I wish The happy Change cou'd be,
That I slept There, and Richard Mourn'd for Me.

EPILOGUE, Spoken by M^ris. Cook.
Now we expect to hear our rare Blades say
Dam' me, I see no Sense in this dull Play;
Tho much of it our abler Judges know,
Was famous Sense 'bove Forty Years ago.
Sometimes we fail to Please for want of Witt
Ith' Play—but more for want on't in the Pitt;
For many a ruin'd Poëts Work 'twou'd Save,
Had you but half the Sense you think you have.
Poets on your Fore-Fathers pam'd dull Plays,
And shrewdly you revenge it in our Days
In troth we fare by't as your Tradesmen do,
For whilst they raise Estates by Cheating You:
Into Acquaintance with their Wives you fall,
And get 'em Graceless Sons to spend it All.
'Tis plain Th'are Yours, Cause All our Arts miscarry,
For just like You, They'll Damn before they'll Marry.
Of honest Terms I now almost Despair,
Unless retriev'd by some rich Yeoman's Heir,
In Grannam's Ribbans and his Own streight Hair!
What Comforts such a Lover will afford,
Joynture, Dear Joynture, O the Heavenly Word!
But—E're of You my Sparks my Leave I take,
For your Unkindness past these Pray'rs I make—
So very Constant may Your Misses be,
'Till You grow Cloid for Want of Jealousie!
Into such Dullness may your Poëts Tire,
'Till They shall write such Plays as You Admire:
May You, instead of Gaming, Whoring, Drinking,
Be Doom'd to your Aversion—Books and Thinking:
And for a Last Wish—What I'm sure You'l Call
The Curse of Curses—Marriage Take ye All. FINIS.

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