I hold for thee, for with thy warlike arme,
Three times this day thou hast preseru’d my life.
Yorke. What say you Lords, the King is fled to London?
[90] There as I here to hold a Parlament.
What saies Lord Warwicke, shall we after them?
War. After them, nay before them if we can.
[♦] Now by my faith Lords, twas a glorious day,
Saint Albones battaile wonne by famous Yorke,
[95] Shall be eternest in all age to come.
Sound Drummes and Trumpets, and to London all,