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Tork. The deadly handed Clifford slew my Steed:
But match to match I have encountred him,
And made a prey for Carrion, Kites and Crows,
Even of the bonny Beast he lov’d so well.
War. 'Of one or both of us the time is come.
York. Hold Warwick : seck thee out some other Chase, For I my self must hunt this Deer to death.
War. Then nobly York, 'ris for a Crown thou fight'st: As I iotend, Clifford, to thrive to day, It grieves my Soul to leave thee unaffaild. [Exit War.
Clif. What feest thou in me, Tork? Why dost thou pause?
York. With thy brave bearing should I be in love, But that thou art fo falt mine Enemy.
Clif. Nor should thy Prowess want praise and esteem, But that 'tis thewn ignobly, and in Treason.
Tork. 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 A&ion borh.
Tork. A dreadful lay, address thee instantly.
Clif. La fin Corronne les oeuvres.
[Dies. 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.
7. Clif. Shame and Confufion, all is on the rout,
Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds
Where it should 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 dedicare to War
Hath no Seif.loye; nor he that loves himself,
Hath not effentially, but by circumstance,
The name of Valour. o let the vile World end,
And the promised Flames of the last day,
Kait Earth and Heav'n together.
Now let the general Trumper blow his blast,
Particularities, and petty sounds
To cease. Wast thou ordained, o dear Fathers
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,
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 seek out my Fame,
Come thou new ruin of old Clifford's House:
As did Æneas old Anchises bear,
So bear I thee upon my manly Sholders;
But then, Æneas bare a living load;
Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.
Enter Richard Plantagenet, and Somerset to fight.
R. Plan. So, lye thou there: [Somerset is killed.
For underneath an Ale-house paltry fign,
The Castle in St. Albans, Somerset
Hath made the Wizard famous in his Death:
Sword, hold thy temper; Heart, be wrathful feill:
Priests pray for Enemies, but Princes kill.
Fight. ` Excursions. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret,
and others. Q. Mar. Away my Lord, you are flow, for shame away.
K. Henry. Can we out-run the Heav'n's? Good Marga
Q. Ma. What are you made of? You'll not fight nor fy: 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,
[ Alarnm sfar off
İf 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 now in our Fortunes made
May readily be stopt.
Clif. But that my Heart's on future mischief fet,
I would speak Blasphemy e'er 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.
[Exennt: Alarum. Retreat. Enter York, Richard Plantagenet, Waró
wick, and Soldiers, with Drum and Colours.
York. Of Salisbury, who can report of him,
That Winter Liɔn, 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 it self, nor have we won one Foot
If Salisbury be lost.
R. Plan. My noble Father,
Three times to day I hope him to his Horse,
Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,
Perswaded him from any further A&:
But still where danger was, still 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 halt thou fought to day;
By th’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 eminent Death.
Well Lords, we have not got that which we have,
Tis 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 e'er 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, '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 such Days as these to us befall. [Exeunt.