'As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to day,
It grieves my Soul to leave thee unaffail'd.
Clif. What feeft thou in me, York?
Why doft thou pause?
York. With thy brave bearing fhould I be in love, But that thou art fo faft mine Enemy.
Clif. Nor fhould thy Prowefs want praise and esteem, But that 'tis fhewn ignobly, and in Treafon.
York. So let it help me now againft thy Sword,
As I in Juftice, and true Right exprefs it.
Clif My Soul and Body on the Action both.
York. A dreadful lay, address thee instantly.
Clif La fin Corronne les œuvres.
York. Thus War hath given thee Peace, for thou art ftill; Peace with his Soul, Heav'n, if it be thy will. Enter young Clifford.
Y. Clif. Shame and Confufion, all is on the rout,
Fear frames diforder, and disorder wounds
Where it fhould guard. O War! thou Son of Hell,
Whom angry Heav'ns do make their Minister,
Throw in the frozen bofoms of our Part,
Hot Coals of Vengeance: Let no Soldiers flie
He that is truly dedicate to War
Hath no Self-love; nor he that loves himself,
Hath not effentially, but by circumstance,
The name of Valour. O let the vile World end,
And the premised Flames of the last day,
Knit Earth and Heav'n together.
Now let the general Trumpet blow his blast,
Particularities, and petty sounds
To ceafe. Waft thou ordained, O dear Father,
To lose thy Youth in Peace, and to atchieve
The Silver Livery of advised Age,
And in thy Reverence, and thy Chair-days, thus
To die in Ruffian Battel? Even at this fight,
My Heart is turn'd to Stone; and while 'tis 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,
P 2
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 gobbits will I cut it,
As wild Medea, young Abfirtus did.
In cruelty, will I feek out my
Come thou new ruin of old Clifford's Houfe:
As did Æneas old Anchifes bear,
So bear I thee upon my manly Shoulders;
But then Eneas bare a living load
Nothing fo heavy as thefe woes of mine.
Enter Richard Plantagenet, and Somerset to fight. R. Plan. So, lye thou there:
For underneath an Ale-house paltry fign,
The Caftle in St. Albans, Somerset
Hath made the Wizard famous in his Death;
Sword, hold thy temper; Heart, be wrathful still:
Priests pray for Enemies, but Princes kill.
Fight, Excurfions, Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, and others.
Q. Mar. Away my Lord, you are flow, for fhame a
K. Henry. Can we out-run the Heav'ns? Good Margaret ftay.
Q.Mar. What are you made of? You'll not fight nor fly: Now is it Manhood, Wisdom, and Defence,
To give the Enemy Way, and to fecure us
By what we can, which can no more but Ay.
If
you
be ta'en, we then fhould fee the bottom
Of all our Fortunes; but if we haply scape,
As well me may, if not through your neglect,
We fhall to London get, where you are lov'd,
And where this breach now in our Fortunes made,
May readily be ftopt.
Cliff. But that my Heart's on future mifchief fet.
I would fpeak Blafphemy ere bid you fly;
But fly you muft: Uncurable difcomfit
Reigns in the Hearts of all our prefent Parts.
Away for your relief, and we will live
To fee their Day, and them our Fortune give.
Away my Lord, away,
Alarum. Retreat. 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 Contufions, and all brush of time:
And like a Gallant in the brow of Youth,
Repairs him with occafion. This happy day
Is not it felf, nor have we won one Foot,
If Salisbury be loft.
R. Plan. My noble Father,
Three times to day I hope him to his Horfe,
Three times beftrid him; thrice I led him off,
Perfwaded him from any further Act:
But still where danger was, ftill there I met him,
And like rich Hangings in an homely House,
So was his Will in his old feeble Body.
But noble as he is, look where he comes.
Sal. Now, by my Sword, well haft thou fought to day? By th'Mafs fo 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,
'Tis not enough our Foes are this time fled,
Being oppofites of fuch repairing Nature.
York. I know our fafety is to follow them,
For, as I hear, the King is fled to London,
To call a prefent Court of Parliament.
Let us purfue him ere the Writs go forth.
What fays Lord Warwick, fhall we after them?
War. After them! nay, before them, if we can:
Now by my Hand, Lords, 'twas a glorious Day.
St. Alban's Battel won by famous York,
Shall be eterniz'd in all Age to come.
Sound Drum and Trumpets, and to London all,
And more fuch Days as these to us befall.
King HENRY VL
With the Death of the
Printed in the YEAR MDCC XIV,
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