The King's Death
The sleeping-chamber of the King: a candle burns dimly by the curtained bed. The arras parts, and two slaves enter with daggers. A storm of wind rages without.
FIRST SLAVE: He sleeps.
SECOND SLAVE: He sleeps, whom only death shall rouse
To dread unsleeping in another world.
FIRST SLAVE: How long the careful night has kept him wakeful,
As if sleep loathed to snare him for our knives!
SECOND SLAVE: Yea, we have crouched so close in quaking dark
I scarce can lift my sword-arm: strike you first.
FIRST SLAVE: The heavy waiting hours have crushed my strength;