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Touch'd with the torches' glaring light, which downward Stream'd from the lofty scaffold, whereon forms Of busy artists at their fatal work, And ghastly headsmen moving to and fro, Appear'd like blacken'd fiends. Dost thou not hear The stroke of hammers, and that sounding plank? There comes a strange and thrilling coldness o'er me.(A pause, and noise without.) I little thought to feel such ruth for him, The man who slew my good and noble master.

Why should'st thou not? The feeling does thee honour; And he doth for that rash and rueful deed Make dear and great amends. The gate is open'd. [Exeunt into the Prison.

But it is past the hour; he must be waked.

Waked! dost thou think he sleeps?