Rich. What is't a Clocke?
Cat. It's Supper time my Lord, it's nine a clocke
King. I will not sup to night,
Giue me some Inke and Paper:
What, is my Beauer easier then it was?
And all my Armour laid into my Tent?
Cat. It is my Liege: and all things are in readinesse
Rich. Good Norfolke, hye thee to thy charge,
Vse carefull Watch, choose trusty Centinels,
Nor. I go my Lord
Rich. Stir with the Larke to morrow, gentle Norfolk
Nor. I warrant you my Lord.
Exit
Rich. Ratcliffe
Rat. My Lord
Rich. Send out a Pursuiuant at Armes
To Stanleys Regiment: bid him bring his power
Before Sun-rising, least his Sonne George fall
Into the blinde Caue of eternall night.
Fill me a Bowle of Wine: Giue me a Watch,
Saddle white Surrey for the Field to morrow:
Look that my Staues be sound, & not too heauy. Ratcliff
Rat. My Lord