[♦] Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
[100] Who builds his hopes in air of your fair looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast,
Ready, with every nod, to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
[♦] Lov. Come, come, dispatch; ’tis bootless to exclaim.
105 Hast. O bloody Richard! miserable England!
I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee
That ever wretched age hath look’d upon.
Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head: