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Steed:

Tork. The deadly handed Clifford flew my
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 fo well.
Enter Clifford.

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

York. Hold Warwick; feck thee out fome other Chase, For I my felf must hunt this Deer to death.

War. Then nobly York, 'tis for a Crown thou fight'st: As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to day,

It grieves my Soul to leave thee unaffail'd.
Clif. What feeft thou in me, Tork?

[Exit War.

Why doft thou paufe?

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 efteem, But that 'tis fhewn ignobly, and in Treafon.

York. So let it help me now against thy Sword,
As I in Juftice, and true Right exprefs it.

Clif. My Soul and Body on the Action both.
York. A dreadful lay, addrefs thee inftantly.
Clif. La fin Corronne les oeuvres.

[Dies.

York. Thus War hath given thee Peace, for thou art still; Peace with his Soul, Heav'n, if it be thy will.

Enter young Clifford.

T.Clif. Shame and Confufion, all is on the rout,
Fear frames diforder, and disorder wounds
Where it should guard. O War! thou Son of Hell,
Whom angry Heav'ns do make their Minifter,
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 premifed Flames of the laft day,
Knit Earth and Heav'n together.
Now let the general Trumpet blow his blast,
Particularities, and petty founds

1

To

To cease. Waft thou ordained, O dear Fathers
To lofe 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 fpares:
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 feek out my Fame.
Come thou new ruin of old Clifford's Houfe:
As did Æneas old Anchifes bear,
So bear I thee upon my manly Sholders;
But then, Æneas bare a living load;
Nothing fo heavy as thefe woes of mine.

[Exit.

Enter Richard Plantagenet, and Somerset to fight.
R. Plan. So, lye thou there: [Somerfet is kill'd.
For underneath an Ale-houfe paltry fign,
The Caftle in St. Albans, Somerset
Hath made the Wizard famous in his Death:
Sword, hold thy temper; Heart, be wrathful ftill:
Priefts 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

way.

K. Henry. Can we out-run the Heav'n's? Good Margarèt stay.

Q. Ma. 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 fly.

[Alarum afar off. If

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If you be ta'en, we then should fee the bottom
Of all our Fortunes; but if we haply fcape,
As well we 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.

Enter Clifford.

Clif. But that my Heart's on future mischief fet, I would fpeak Blafphemy e'er bid you fly; But fly you muft: Uncurable difcomfit Reigns in the Hearts of all our present Parts. Away for your relief, and we will live To fee their Day, and them our Fortune give. Away my Lord, away. [Exeunt Alarum. Retreat. Enter York, Richard Plantagenet, War wick, 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 Horse,
Three times beftrid him; thrice I led him off,
Perfwaded him from any further A&:
But ftill 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.
Enter Salisbury.

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 eminent 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.

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.

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