Of Salisbury, who can report of him,

That winter lion, who in rage forgets

Aged contusions and all brush of time,

And, like a gallant in the brow of youth,

Repairs him with occasion? This happy day

Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,

If Salisbury be lost.

My noble father,

Three times today I holp him to his horse,

Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,

Persuaded him from any further act;

But still, where danger was, still there I met him,

And like rich hangings in a homely house,

So was his will in his old feeble body.

But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought today.

By th’ mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard.

God knows how long it is I have to live,

And it hath pleased him that three times today

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 opposites of such repairing nature.

I know our safety is to follow them;

For, as I hear, the King is fled to London

To call a present court of parliament.

Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth.

What says Lord Warwick? Shall we after them?

After them? Nay, before them, if we can.

Now, by my hand, lords, ’twas a glorious day.

Saint Albans battle won by famous York

Shall be eternized in all age to come.

Sound drums and trumpets, and to London all;

And more such days as these to us befall!