Queen.
Away, my lord—you're slow—away away!

King.
Can we out run the heavens?—Good Margaret stay.

Queen.
What are you made of? you'll nor fight, nor fly.
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! [Alarum.
If you be ta'en, we then shall see the bottom
Of all our fortunes: but, if we haply 'scape,
(As well we may, if not for your neglect,)—

Enter Young Clifford.

Y. Cliff.
But that my heart's on future vengeance bent,
I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly.
But fly you must! Incurable discomfit
Reigns in the hearts of all our present powers.
Clifford is slain—the fountain of my blood
Is stopp'd by York; and princely Somerset,
Chased through St. Alban's Streets, hath met his fate. [Alarum.
Hark! the foe presses nearer—nearer yet,—
Away, for your relief!—Away, away! [Exeunt. END OF ACT IV.

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