’Tis twice! ’Tis twice! It is a certain portent.
Yea, Arthur fights, though Arthur dies, to-morrow.
Yea, now I’ll sleep, for I am over-weary.
Weary of life, yea I am over-tired.
I would fain sleep though night should have no morning.
This night is sweet and restful. To-morrow comes doom,
This hour for soft oblivion.
[Curtain.