Document:  All > Shakespeare > Histories > King Henry VI, part II > Act V, scene II

	[Alarums to the battle. Enter WARWICK]

WARWICK: Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls:
	And 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.

	[Enter YORK]

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

YORK: The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed,
	But match to match I have encounter'd him
	And made a prey for carrion kites and crows
	Even of the bonny beast he loved so well.


WARWICK: Of one or both of us the time is come.

YORK: Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase,
	For I myself must hunt this deer to death.

WARWICK: 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.


CLIFFORD: 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.

CLIFFORD: Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,
	But that 'tis shown ignobly and in treason.

YORK: So let it help me now against thy sword
	As I in justice and true right express it.

CLIFFORD: My soul and body on the action both!

YORK: A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.

	[They fight, and CLIFFORD falls]

CLIFFORD: La fin couronne les oeuvres.


YORK: Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.
	Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!



YOUNG CLIFFORD: 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.

	[Seeing 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 ordain'd, 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 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 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.

	[Exit, bearing off his father]

	is killed]

RICHARD: So, lie thou there;
	For underneath an alehouse' paltry sign,
	The Castle in Saint Alban's, 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 HENRY VI, QUEEN
	MARGARET, and others]

QUEEN MARGARET: Away, my lord! you are slow; for shame, away!

KING HENRY VI: Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret, stay.

QUEEN MARGARET: 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 afar off]

	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 stopp'd.


YOUNG CLIFFORD: 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!



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