Glo'st.
Catesby.

Catesby.
Here, my lord.

Glo'st.
Send out a pursuivant at arms,
To Stanley's regiment; bid him 'fore sun-rise
Meet me with his power, or young George's head
Shall pay the forfeit of his cold delay.
What, is my beaver easier than it was,
And all my armour laid into my tent?

Catesby.
It is, my liege; all is in readiness.

Glo'st.
Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge;
Use careful watch—choose trusty centinels.

Norfolk.
Doubt not, my lord.

Glo'st.
Be stirring with the lark, good Norfolk.

Norfolk.
I shall, my lord— [Exit.

Glo'st.
Saddle White Surry for the field, to-morrow.
Is ink and paper ready* ^note?

Catesby.
It is, my lord.

Glo'st.
An hour after midnight, come to my tent,
And help to arm me—a good night, my friends. [Exit.

Catesby.
Methinks the king has not that pleas'd alacrity,
Nor chear of mind that he was wont to have.

Ratcliff.
The mere effect of business;
You'll find him, sir, another man i'th' field.
When you shall see him with his beaver up,
Ready to mount his neighing steed, with whom

He smiling seems to have some wanton talk,
Clapping his pamper'd sides to hold him still;
Then, with a motion swift and light as air,
Like fiery Mars, he vaults him to the saddle;
Looks terror to the foe, and courage to his soldiers.

Catesby.
Good-night to Richmond then; as I hear,
His numbers are so few, and those so sick,
And famish'd in their march, if he dares fight us—
He jumps into the sea to cool his fever.
But come, 'tis late—Now let us to our tents,
We've few hours good, before the trumpet wakes us. [Exeunt. Glo'ster's Tent. Enter Glo'ster from his Tent* ^note.

Glo'st.
'Tis now the dead of night, and half the world
Is in a lonely solemn darkness hung;
Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me)
With all the weary courtship of
My care-tir'd thoughts can't win her to my bed;
Tho' ev'n the stars do wink, as 'twere with over-watching;
I'll forth, and walk awhile—the air's refreshing,
And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay
Gives it a sweet and wholesom odour;
How awful is this gloom!—and hark, from camp to camp
The hum of either army stilly sounds;
That the fixt centinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch:
Steed threatens steed in high and boastful neighings,
Piercing the night's dull ear—Hark, from the tents
The armourers acocmplishing the knights,
With clink of hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation; while some,

Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch,
With patience sit, and inly ruminate
The morning's danger—By yon heav'n, my stern
Impatience chides this tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp
So tediously away—I'll to my couch,
And once more try to sleep her into morning. [Lies down; a groan is heard.
Ha! what means that dismal voice? sure 'tis
The echo of some yawning grave,
That teems with an untimely ghost—'tis gone!
'Twas but my fancy, or perhaps the wind,
Forcing his entrance thro' some hollow cavern.
No matter what—I feel my eyes grow heavy. [Sleeps. King Henry's Ghost rises* ^note.

K. Henry.
Oh! thou whose unrelenting thoughts, not all
The hideous terrors of thy guilt can shake,
Whose conscience, with thy body, ever sleeps,
Sleep on; while I, by heav'n's high ordinance.
In dreams of horror wake thy frightful soul:
Now give thy thoughts to me; let 'em behold
These gaping wounds, which thy death-dealing hand
Within the Tower gave my anointed body:
Now shall thy own devouring conscience gnaw
Thy heart, and terribly revenge my murder. Lady Anne's Ghost rises.

La. Anne.
Think on the wrongs of wretched Anne thy wife,
E'en in the battle's heat remember me,
And edgeless fall thy sword—despair, and die.

Ghosts of Prince Edward and the Duke of York rise.

P. Ed.
Richard, dream on; and see the wand'ring spirits
Of thy young nephews, murder'd in the Tower:
Could not our youth, our innocence, persuade
Thy cruel heart to spare our harmless lives?
Who, but for thee, alas, might have enjoy'd
Our many promis'd years of happiness.
No soul, save thine, but pities our misusage;
Oh, 'twas a cruel deed! therefore alone,
Unpitying, unpitied, shalt thou fall.

K. Henry.
The morning's dawn has summon'd me away;
Now, Richard, wake in all the hells of guilt!
And let that wild despair, which now does prey
Upon thy mangled thoughts, alarm the world.
Awake, Richard, awake, to guilty minds
A terrible example! [All the Ghosts sink.

Glo'st.
Give me a horse—bind up my wounds!
Have mercy, heav'n! ha! soft! 'twas but a dream;
But then so terrible, it shakes my soul;
Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh;
My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror:
Oh, tyrant conscience! how dost thou afflict me?
When I look back, 'tis terrible retreating:
I cannot bear the thought, nor dare repent:
I am but man; and, fate, do thou dispose me.
Who's there? Enter Catesby.

Catesby.
'Tis I, my lord: the early village cock
Has thrice done salutation to the morn:
Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour.

Glo'st.
Oh, Catesby! I have had such horrid dreams.

Catesby.
Shadows, my lord—below the soldier's heeding.

Glo'st.
Now, by my this day's hopes—shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,

Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers,
Arm'd all in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.

Catesby.
Be more yourself, my lord: consider, sir,
Were it but known a dream had frighted you,
How would your animated foes presume on't!

Glo'st.
Perish that thought!—no, never be it said
That fate itself could awe the soul of Richard.
Hence, babbling dreams! you threaten here in vain;
* ^noteConscience, avaunt! Richard's himself again:
Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse; away:
My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray. [Exeunt.

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