Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,
Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.

Enter YORK.

How now, my noble lord! what, all a-foot?

York. The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed;
But match to match I have encounter'd him,

And made a prey for carrion kites and crows
Even of the bonny beast he lov'd so well.

Enter CLIFFord.

War. Of one or both of us the time is come.

York. Hold, Warwick! seek thee out some other chace,

For I myself must hunt this deer to death.

War. Then, nobly, York; 't is for a crown thou fight'st.

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day,

It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail'd.

[Exit WARWICK. Clif. What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause? York. With thy brave bearing should I be in love,

But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

Clif. Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,

But that 't is shown ignobly, and in treason.

York. So let it help me now against thy sword,

As I in justice and true right express it.

Clif. My soul and body on the action both!

York. A dreadful lay! address thee instantly.
Clif. La fin couronne les œuvres.

[They fight, and CLIFFORD falls and dies.

York. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still. Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!

Enter young Clifford.

Y. Clif. Shame and confusion! all is on the rout:

Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds

Where it should guard. O war! thou son of hell,
Whom angry heavens do make their minister,
Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part

Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly:

[Exit.

He that is truly dedicate to war,

Hath no self-love; nor he, that loves himself,
Hath not essentially, but by circumstance,
The name of valour. - O! let the vile world end,

And the premised flames of the last day
Knit earth and heaven together!

[Seeing his Father's body.

Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,
Particularities and petty sounds

To cease!

- Wast thou ordain'd, dear father,
To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve
To silver livery of advised age,

And, in thy reverence, and thy chair-days, thus
To die in ruffian battle? - Even at this sight,
My heart is turn'd to stone: and while 't is mine,
It shall be stony. York not our old men spares;
No more will I their babes: tears virginal
Shall be to me even as the dew to fire;

And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims,
Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax.
Henceforth I will not have to do with pity:
Meet I an infant of the house of York,
Into as many gobbets will I cut it,
As wild Medea young Absyrtus did:
In cruelty will I seek out my fame.

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford's house;

Hath made the wizard famous in his death.

Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still:

Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.

[Exit.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter King HENRY, Queen MARGARET, and others, retreating.

K. Hen.

Q. Mar. Away, my lord! you are slow: for shame, away! Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret, stay. Q. Mar. What are you made of? you'll nor fight, nor fly; Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence,

To give the enemy way; and to secure us
By what we can, which can no more but fly.
If you be ta'en, we then should see the bottom
Of all our fortunes; but if we haply scape,
(As well we may, if not through your neglect)
We shall to London get; where you are lov'd,
And where this breach,
May readily be stopp'd.

[Alarum afar off.

now in our fortunes made,

Enter young CLIFFORD.

Y. Clif. But that my heart's on future mischief set,
I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly;

But fly you must: uncurable discomfit
Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts.
Away, for your relief; and we will live
To see their day, and them our fortune give.
Away, my lord, away!

Alarum: Retreat.

SCENE III.

Fields near Saint Albans.

[Exeunt.

Flourish; then enter YORK, RICHARD PLANTAGENET, WARWICK, and Soldiers, with Drum and Colours.

York. Of Salisbury, who can report of him?

That winter lion, who in rage forgets

Aged contusions and all brush of time,

And, like a gallant in the brow of youth,

Repairs him with occasion? this happy day
Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,

Three times to-day I holp him to his horse,
Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,
Persuaded him from any farther act:

But still, where danger was, still there I met him;
And like rich hangings in a homely house,

So was his will in his old feeble body.

But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Enter SALISBURY.

Sal. Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day:
By the mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard:
God knows how long it is I have to live,

And it hath pleas'd him, that three times to-day
You have defended me from imminent death.
Well, lords, we have not got that which we have:
'T is not enough our foes are this time fled,
Being opposites of such repairing nature.

York. I know our safety is to follow them;
For, as I hear, the king is fled to London,
To call a present court of parliament:
Let us pursue him, ere the writs go forth.
What says lord Warwick? shall we after them?

War. After them? nay, before them, if we can.
Now, by my hand, lords, 't was a glorious day:
Saint Albans' battle, won by famous York,
Shall be eterniz'd in all age to come. →→

Sound, drums and trumpets! - and to London all;
And more such days as these to us befall!

[Exeunt.

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