LITMIR.BIZ

        WARWICK. How now, fair lords! What fare? What news abroad?

        RICHARD. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount

          Our baleful news and at each word's deliverance

          Stab poinards 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!

        EDWARD. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet

          Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption

          Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

        WARWICK. 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 befall'n.

          After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

          Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,

          Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

          Were brought me of your loss and his depart.

          I, then in London, keeper of the King,

          Muster'd my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends,

          And very well appointed, as I thought,

          March'd toward Saint Albans to 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 Saint 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 heated 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 an idle thresher 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 rewards,

          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.