O momentary grace of mortal men

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.

Come, lead me to the block. Bear him my head.
They smile at me who shortly shall be dead.

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.
They exit.