And dying mens' cries do fill the empty air,)
Clifford, I fay, come forth and fight with me;
Proud northern Lord, Clifford of Cumberland,
Warwick is hoarfe with calling thee to arms.

Enter York.

War. How now, my noble Lord? what all a-foot? York. The deadly-handed Clifford flew my Steed: But match to match I have encountred him, And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Ev'n 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: feek thee out fome other chace, For I myself muft hunt this deer to death.

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

It grieves my foul to leave thee unaffail'd. [Exit War. Clif. What feeft thou in me, York? why dost 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 against thy fword,

As I in Juftice and true Right exprefs it.
Clif. My foul and body on the action both!

York. A dreadful lay, address thee inftantly. [Fight.
Clif. La fin couronne les œuvres.

[Dies. York. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art ftill; Peace with his foul, heav'n, if it be thy will. [Exit.

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 fon of hell. Whom angry heav'ns do make their minister

Throw in the frozen bofoms of our part
Hot coals of vengeance. Let no foldier fly.
He, that is truly dedicate to war,

Hath no felf-love; for he, that loves himself,
Hath not effentially, but by circumstance,
The name of valour. O let the vile world end,

[Seeing his dead father. 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 founds

To cease! Waft thou ordained, O dear father,
To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve
The filver livery of advised age:

And in thy reverence, and thy chair-days, thus
To die in ruffian battle? Even at this fight
My heart is turn'd to ftone; and while 'tis mine,
It shall be ftony. 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 Abfyrtus did.
In cruelty will I feek out my fame.

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford's house:
As did Æneas old Anchifes bear,

So I bear thee upon my manly fhoulders ;
But then Eneas bare a living load,

Nothing fo heavy as thefe woes of mine.

[Exit bearing off his Father.

Enter Richard Plantagenet and Somerset, to fight.

R. Plan. So, lie thou there :

[Somerset is killed.

The

For underneath an ale-house' paltry Sign, (14)

(14) For underneath an Aeloufe paltry Sign,
The Caftle in St. Albans, Somerset
Hath made the Wizard famous in his Death.]

The

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.

[Exit Richard Plantagenet.

Fight. Excurfions. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret,

and others.

Q. Mar. Away, my Lord, you are flow; for fhame, away. K.Hen. Can we out run the heav'ns! good Margret, stay. Q. Mar. What are you made of? you'll not fight, nor fly: Now is it manhood, wifdom and defence,

To give the enemy way, and to fecure us
By what we can, which can no more but fly.

[Alarm afar off. If you be ta'en, we then fhould 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 stopt.

Enter Clifford.

Clif. But that my heart's on future mischief fet,
I would fpeak blafphemy, ere bid you fly;
But fly you muft: incurable discomfit

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!..

[Exeunt.

The Death of Somerfet here accomplishes that equivocal Prediction given by Jordan, the Witch, concerning the Duke; which we met with at the Clofe of the Firft Act of this Play:

Let him fhur Caftles;

Safer fhall be be upon the fandy Plains,

Than where Caftles, mounted, ftand.

i. e. the Reprefentation of a Caftle, mounted for a Sign.

VOL. V.

E

Alarm. 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 bruth of time;
And like a Gallant in the brow of youth,
Repairs him with occafion. This happy day
Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,
If Salisbury be loft.

R. Plan. My noble father,

Three times to day I holp him to his horfe,
'Three times beftrid him; thrice I led him off,
Perfuaded him from any further act :

But ftill, where danger was, ftill there I met him;
And, like rich hangings in a homely houfe,
So was his Will in his old feeble body.
But noble as he is, look, where he comes.
Enter Salisbury.

Sal. Now, by my fword, 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 battle, 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 thefe to us befall!

[Exeunt.

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