[♦] Tyr. Let me have open means to come to them,
And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them.
[80] K. Rich. Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel:
[♦] Go, by this token: rise, and lend thine ear: [Whispers.
[♦] There is no more but so: say it is done,
[♦] And I will love thee, and prefer thee too.
[♦] Tyr. ’Tis done, my gracious lord.
[85] K. Rich. Shall we hear from thee, Tyrrel, ere we sleep.
[♦] Tyr. Ye shall, my lord. [Exit.
Re-enter BUCKINGHAM.