Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls;

An if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,

Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum

And dead men’s 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.

How now, my noble lord? What, all afoot?

The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed,

But match to match I have encountered him

And made a prey for carrion kites and crows

Even of the bonny beast he loved so well.

Of one or both of us the time is come.

Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase,

For I myself must hunt this deer to death.

Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st.

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive today,

It grieves my soul to leave thee unassailed.

What seest thou in me, York? Why dost thou pause?

With thy brave bearing should I be in love,

But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,

But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason.

So let it help me now against thy sword

As I in justice and true right express it!

My soul and body on the action both!

A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.

Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.

Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!

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 heavens do make their minister,

Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part

Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly.

He that is truly dedicate to war

Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself

Hath not essentially but by circumstance,

The name of valour. [_Sees his dead father_.] O, let the vile world end

And the premised flames of the last day

Knit earth and heaven together!

Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,

Particularities and petty sounds

To cease! Wast thou ordained, dear father,

To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve

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 turned 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 gobbets 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 Aeneas old Anchises bear,

So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;

But then Aeneas bare a living load,

Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.

So, lie thou there;

For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign,

The Castle in Saint 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.

Fight. Excursions. Enter King, Queen and others.

Away, my lord! You are slow, for shame, away!

Can we outrun the heavens? Good Margaret, stay.

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.

If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom

Of all our fortunes; but if we haply scape,

As well we may, if not through your neglect,

We shall to London get, where you are loved

And where this breach now in our fortunes made

May readily be stopped.

But that my heart’s on future mischief set,

I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly;

But fly you must; uncurable discomfit

Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts.

Away, for your relief! And we will live

To see their day and them our fortune give.

Away, my lord, away!