RATCLIFFE.
Come, come, dispatch. The Duke would be at dinner:
Make a short shrift. He longs to see your head.
HASTINGS.
O momentary grace of mortal men,
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Who builds his hope in air of your good looks
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast,
Ready with every nod to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
LOVELL.
Come, come, dispatch. ’Tis bootless to exclaim.
HASTINGS.
O bloody Richard! Miserable England,
I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee
That ever wretched age hath looked upon.
Come, lead me to the block. Bear him my head.
They smile at me who shortly shall be dead.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. London. The Tower Walls
Enter Richard and Buckingham in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured.
RICHARD.
Come, cousin, canst thou quake and change thy colour,
Murder thy breath in middle of a word,
And then again begin, and stop again,
As if thou were distraught and mad with terror?
BUCKINGHAM.
Tut, I can counterfeit the deep tragedian;
Speak, and look back, and pry on every side,
Tremble and start at wagging of a straw,
Intending deep suspicion. Ghastly looks
Are at my service, like enforced smiles,
And both are ready in their offices,
At anytime to grace my stratagems.
But what, is Catesby gone?
RICHARD.
He is; and, see, he brings the Mayor along.