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Like a tired hunter after toilsome chace. Call to him, friend, I cannot.

Ho! Don Henriquez! ho, my Lord! awake! Awake, my Lord!—He is in heavy sleep, Like the dull rest of death, which hath no ear.

Oh that it were indeed the rest of death! It is a woful service to awake him. How goes the time? Might he still sleep awhile?

'Tis past the hour at which he charged me strictly To call him up.

Then he must be obey'd.

Wake! Don Henriquez, wake! it is the hour. He moves him now: the sound is in his ears; The light annoys his eyes. Awake, my Lord. (Touching him again.)

What is it?

'Tis the hour; the morning breaks.

Bring me my armour: have ye roused the camp?