"

To keep thee from the Tempest of the Field.
Old Clif. I am refolv'd to bear a greater Storm,
Than thou canst Conjure up to day:

any

And that I'll write upon thy Burgonet,

Might I but know thee by thy Houfe's Badge.

War. Now by my Father's Badge, old Nevil's Creat
The rampant Bear chain'd to the ragged Staff,
This day I'll wear aloft my Burgonet,

As on a Mountain top, the Cedar fhews,
That keeps his Leaves in fpight of

any Storm, Even to affright thee with the view thereof.

Old Clif. And from thy Burgonet I'll rend thy Bear, And tread it under foot with all contempt,

Defpight the Bearard, that protects the Bear.

Y. Clif. And fo to Arms, victorious noble Father, To quel the Rebels and their Complices.

For

R. Plan. Fie, Charity for fhame, fpeak not in fpight, you fhall fup with Jefu Chrift to night.

Y. Clif. Foul Stigmatick, that's more than thou can't tell. R. Plan. If not in Heav'n you'll furely fup in Hell. [Exeunt.

Enter Warwick.

War. Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls;
And if thou doft not hide thee from the Bear.
Now when the angry Trumpet founds Alarum,
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?
Tork. The deadly handed Clifford flew my Steed:

But match to match I have encountred him,
And made a prey for Carrion, Kites and Crows,
Even of the bonny Beaft he lov'd fo well.

Enter Clifford.

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

For 1 my felf must hunt this Deer to death.

York. Hold Warwick: seek thee out fome other Chase,

War. Then nobly York, 'tis for a Crown thou fight'st:

As

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?

[Exit War,

York. With thy brave bearing should 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, addrefs thee inftantly.

Clif. La fin Corronne les œuvres.

[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.

r. 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 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 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 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,

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hall

Shall to my flaming Wrath, be Oil and Flax.
Henceforth, I will not have to do with pity,
Meet I an Infant of the Houfe 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 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, Somerfet

[Exit

[Sometfet is kill'd.

Hath made the Wizard famous in his Death;

Sword, hold thy temper; Heart, be wrathful still:
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'ns? Good Margaret stay.

2.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 fly.

Lf

[Alarum afar off. you be ta'en, we then fhould fee the bottom Of all our Fortunes; but if we haply fcape, 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.

Enter Clifford.

Cliff. But that my Heart's on future mischief fet.
I would speak Blafphemy ere bid you fly;
But fly you muft: Uncurable difcomfit
Reigns in the Hearts of all our prefent Parts.

Away

[Exeunt.

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, 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 Act:

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 Richard. you

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 thefe to us befall.
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[Exeunt.