Clifford I say, come forth and fight with me,
Proud Northerne Lord, Clifford of Comberland,
15 Warwicke is hoarse with calling thee to Armes. Clifford speakes within.
Warwicke stand still, and view the way that Clifford hewes with his murthering Curtel-axe, through the fainting troopes to finde thee out.
Warwicke stand still, and stir not till I come.
Enter Yorke.
20 War. How now my Lord, what a foote?
Who kild your horse?
Yorke. The deadly hand of Clifford. Noble Lord,
Fiue horse this day slaine vnder me,