[♦] War. What say’st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?
Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.
105 War. Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine.
Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled.
War. ’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.
North. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.
[110] Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain