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Glost. Oh, Catesby, I have had such horrid dreams! Catesby. Shadows, my lord !-below the soldier's
heeding. Glost. Now, by my this day's hopes, shadows, to
Catesby. Be more yourself, my lord: consider, sir,
Glost. 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;, Conscience, avaunt! Richard's himself again! Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse ! away! My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray! (Exeunt.
Enter Richmond, OXFORD, SIR W. BRANDON,
Rich. "Tis well-
we thought them; Worn as we are, we brave the field before them.
Rich. Come, there looks life in such a cheerful
haste. If dreams should animate a soul resolvid, I'm more than pleas'd with those I've had to-night: Methought that all the ghosts of them, whose bodies Richard murder’d, came mourning to my tent, And rous’d me to revenge them. Sir W. Brand. A good omen, sir.--[Trumpets sound
a distant March.] Hark! the trumpet of The enemy! it speaks them on the march. Rich. Why, then, let's on, my friends, to face
standards, draw your willing swords; Sound drums, and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully. The word's St. George, Richmond, and victory.
Enter NORFOLK, with a Paper.
Glost, Come, bustle, bustle ! caparison my horse ; Call forth Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power ; Myself will lead the soldiers to the plain.
[Exit CATESBY. Well, Norfolk, what think'st thou now?
Nor. That we shall conquer—but on my tent, This morning early, was this paper found.
Glost. (Reads.] Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold, For Dickon, thy master, is bought and sold. A weak invention of the enemy! Come, gentlemen, now each man to his charge, And, ere we do bestride our foaming steeds, Remember whom you are to cope withal ; A scum of Britons, rascals, runaways ! Whom their o'ercloy'd country vomits forth To desperate adventures and destruction.
Enter CATESBY. What says Lord Stanley i will he bring his power?
Catesby. He does refuse, my lord-he will not stir. Glost. Off with his son George's head!
Nor. My lord, the foe's already past the marshAfter the battle, let young Stanley die.
Glost. Why, after be it then.
Richard calls !