War.
Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls;
And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,
(Now when the angry trumpet sounds alarum,
And dying mens' cries do fill the empty air,)
Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me;
Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,
Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.

Enter York.

War.
How now, my noble lord? what all a-foot?

York.
The deadly-handed Clifford slew 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 so well. Enter Clifford.

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

York.
Hold, Warwick: seek thee out some other chace,
For I myself 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 unassail'd. [Exit War.

Clif.
What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause?

York.
With thy brave Bearing should I be in love,
But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

Clif.
Nor should thy Prowess want praise and esteem,
But that 'tis shewn ignobly, and in treason.

York.
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 action both!—

York.
A dreadful lay, address thee instantly. [Fight.

Clif.
La fin couronne les œuvres. [Dies.

York.
Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still;
Peace with his soul, heav'n, if it be thy will. [Exit. Enter young Clifford.

Y. Clif.
Shame and confusion! 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 bosoms of our part
Hot coals of vengeance. Let no soldier flie.
He, that is truly dedicate to war,
Hath no self-love; for he, that loves himself,
Hath not essentially, but by circumstance,
The name of valour.—O let the vile world end, [Seeing his dead father.
^{2 note}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 sounds
To cease! Wast thou ordained, O dear father,
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 battle? Even at this sight
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 Absyrtus 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 I bear thee upon my manly shoulders;
But then Æneas bare a living load,
Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. [Exit, bearing off his Father.

Enter Richard Plantagenet and Somerset, to fight.

R. Plan.
So, lye thou there: [Somerset is kill'd.
For underneath an ale-house' paltry Sign,
The Castle in St. Albans, Somerset
Hath made the Wizard famous in his death;
Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still:
Priests pray for enemies, but Princes kill. [Exit Richard Plantagenet.

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