Buz. Not in my sleepe.
Hen. Collect thy sences; when thou wert awake didst thou heare nothing?
Buz. Nothing.
Hen. Twixt 12 & one?
Buz. 12 & one? Then was I in my dead sleepe, cursing the fleas.
Hen. Or about one & two.
Buz. That's Three:—Now the Beetle[32] of my head beates it into my memory that as you & your brother Manuell lay in the high Bed, & I trondling[33] underneath, I heard one of you talke most stigmatically in his sleepe—most horriferously.
Hen. Right, now thou com'st to me,—so did I.
Buz. And then once or twice the sleepy voice cryde out, "Oh it was I that murthered him! this hand killd him!"
Hen. Art sure thou heardst this?