War.
How now, fair Lords? what fare? what news abroad?

Rich.
Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount
Our baleful news, and at each word's deliv'rance
Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told;
The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
O valiant Lord, the Duke of York is slain.

Edw.
O Warwick! Warwick! That Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption,

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

War.
Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things sith then befaln.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the post could run,
Were brought me of your loss and his depart.
I then in London, keeper of the King,
Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends;
March'd towards St. Albans t'intercept the Queen;
Bearing the King in my behalf along;
For by my scouts I was advertised
That she was coming, with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching King Henry's oath, and your succession:
Short tale to make, we at St. Albans met,
Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought:
But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,
Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queen,
That robb'd my soldiers of their hated spleen;
Or whether 'twas report of her success,
Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,
Who thunders to his captives blood and death,
I cannot judge: but to conclude with truth,
Their weapons, like to lightning, came and went;
Our soldiers, like the night-owl's lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail,
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,
With promise of high pay and great reward;
But all in vain, they had no heart to fight;
And we, in them, no hope to win the day;
So that we fled; the King, unto the Queen;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk and myself,
In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you:
For in the marches here we heard you were,

Making another head to fight again.

Edw.
Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?
And when came George from Burgundy to England?

War.
Some six miles off the Duke is with his power;
And for your brother, he was lately sent
From your kind aunt, Dutchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich.
'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled;
Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne'er, till now, his scandal of retire.

War.
Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear:
For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the Diadem from faint Henry's head,
And wring the awful scepter from his fist;
Were he as famous and as bold in war,
As he is fam'd for mildness, peace and prayer.

Rich.
I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not;
'Tis love, I bear thy glories, makes me speak.
But in this troublous time what's to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numb'ring our Ave Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
If for the last, say, ay; and to it, Lords.

War.
Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out:
And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, Lords: the proud insulting Queen,
With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,
And of their feather many more proud birds,
Have wrought the easie-melting King, like wax.

He swore consent to your succession,
His oath inrolled in the parliament:
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath, and what beside
May make against the house of Lancaster.
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:
Now if the help of Norfolk and myself,
With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand:
Why, Via! to London will we march amain;
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry, Charge upon our foes!—
But never once again turn back, and fly.

Rich.
Ay, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak:
Ne'er may he live to see a sun-shine day,
That cries, retire,—if Warwick bid him stay.

Edw.
Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean,
And when thou fail'st, (as God forbid the hour!)
Must Edward fall, which peril heav'n forefend!

War.
No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York;
The next degree is England's royal throne:
For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd
In ev'ry borough as we pass along:
And he, that throws not up his cap for joy,
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,
Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown;
But sound the trumpets, and about our task.

Rich.
Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,
As thou hast shewn it flinty by thy deeds,
I come to pierce it or to give thee mine.

Edw.
Then strike up, drums; God and St. George for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War.
How now? what news?

Mes.
The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,
The Queen is coming with a puissant host;
And craves your company for speedy counsel.

War.
Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let's away. [Exeunt omnes.

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