[♦] Richm. The sweetest sleep, and fairest-boding dreams
That ever enter’d in a drowsy head,
Have I since your departure had, my lords.
[230] Methought their souls, whose bodies Richard murder’d,
[♦] Came to my tent, and cried on victory:
[♦] I promise you, my soul is very jocund
In the remembrance of so fair a dream.
[♦] How far into the morning is it, lords?
235 Lords. Upon the stroke of four.
[♦] Richm. Why, then ’tis time to arm and give direction. His oration to his soldiers.