Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls;
An 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.
Clifford of Cumberland, it's Warwick calling you. And if you don't hide like a coward, now, when the battle trumpet sounds and the air fills with the cries of dead men, come out and fight me! Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, I'm hoarse from shouting for you to arm yourself and fight.
Hey, Clifford of Cumberland! It's Warwick. If you're not going to hide like a coward, then come on out. The battle trumpet is sounding, men are dying all around us, and I'm calling you out. Fight me! You proud northern lord—I've been shouting myself hoarse trying to get you to face me.
clifford! it's warwick. don't hide like a coward. come fight me. the battle's raging, men are dying. i'm done calling for you. let's go.
The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed,
But match to match I have encountered him
And made a prey for carrion kites and crows
Even of the bonny beast he loved so well.
Clifford killed my horse with that deadly hand of his, but I've met him in battle and turned his own beautiful horse—the beast he loved—into carrion for the kites and crows.
Sure, Clifford killed my horse with those deadly hands of his. But I got my chance to fight him, and I made sure his horse ended up as food for the vultures and crows—that beautiful horse he loved so much.
clifford killed my horse. but i got him back. his horse is dead too. the one he loved.
Of one or both of us the time is come.
The time has come for one or both of us to die.
One of us—or both—is about to die today.
one of us dies today
Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase,
For I myself must hunt this deer to death.
Wait, Warwick. Find yourself another opponent. I need to hunt Clifford down and kill him myself.
Hold on, Warwick. Go find someone else to fight. Clifford is mine—I'm going to hunt him down and finish him.
wait warwick. clifford's mine. i'm finishing this myself.
Historians date the start of the Wars of the Roses to 1455, to this battle at St. Albans. Shakespeare gives the real start point not to a political act but to a private grief: Young Clifford standing over his father's body and announcing that his heart has turned to stone. The speech is remarkable because it is not performed in rage — it is reasoned. Young Clifford makes an argument: York spares no old men; therefore he will spare no children. Grief is converted into logic. And the Medea reference is not hyperbole for him — it is a statement of intent. In Henry VI Part 3, Young Clifford kills the young son of York exactly as promised, mocking him before the killing. What Shakespeare is doing in this speech is showing that the Wars of the Roses is not primarily a constitutional crisis or a dynastic dispute. It is a cycle of personal grief and revenge, handed down from fathers to sons, made permanent by the moment a grieving man decides that pity is a weakness he can no longer afford.
Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st.
As I intend, Clifford, to thrive today,
It grieves my soul to leave thee unassailed.
Then go with honor, York—you're fighting for a crown. As for you, Clifford, I'm planning to thrive today too, and it really bothers me to have to leave you without facing me.
Go at it with honor then, York. You're fighting for the crown itself. As for you, Clifford, I'm planning to win today too, and it really bothers me that I have to miss fighting you.
go on york. you're fighting for a crown. clifford, sorry i can't take you on. i want to win today.
What seest thou in me, York? Why dost thou pause?
What do you see in me, York? Why are you hesitating?
What are you looking at, York? Why'd you stop?
what? why are you staring? come on.
With thy brave bearing should I be in love,
But that thou art so fast mine enemy.
I should be in love with your courage and bearing, but you are my enemy.
I'd really respect how brave you are, but you're my enemy, so I can't let that matter.
i'd like you if you weren't trying to kill me
Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,
But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason.
Your strength and skill should be praised and respected, but they're being used in a shameful, treasonous way.
You've got real skill and strength—you'd deserve respect for it—but you're using it for shameful treason.
you're strong but you're using it for treason. that's shameful.
So let it help me now against thy sword
As I in justice and true right express it!
May my strength help me now against your sword, just as I am fighting for justice and the true right!
So let my strength help me defeat your sword—because I'm fighting for justice and what's truly right!
i'm fighting for justice and the right. let that strength be mine.
My soul and body on the action both!
I'm staking my soul and my body on this fight!
I'm putting everything on the line—my soul and my body!
my life, my soul, everything—on this fight
A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.
A terrible wager! Now prepare yourself for battle!
That's a heavy bet! Now get ready—let's do this!
heavy stakes. let's fight.
The prophecy 'let him shun castles' was delivered in Act 1 by a spirit conjured through black magic. Somerset dismissed it, Henry used it to destroy Gloucester, and everyone forgot about it. Shakespeare has not. The first stage direction in this scene is: 'The sign of the Castle Inn is displayed.' The playwright puts the prop onstage deliberately, lets it hang there through York's combat with Clifford and Young Clifford's entire stone-heart speech, and then has Richard kill Somerset directly under it. Richard's commentary — 'For underneath an alehouse' paltry sign, the Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset hath made the wizard famous in his death' — is an act of theatrical gloating. The irony is multilayered: Somerset died under a castle, as predicted, but the castle was an alehouse sign. The supernatural is vindicated, but via the most mundane instrument available. Shakespeare is being funny and horrifying simultaneously — the prophecy is right, and what makes it right is a painted board over a pub door.
_La fin couronne les oeuvres._
The end determines all—the end crowns the work.
In the end, it all comes down to this. The end makes the whole story.
the ending is everything
Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.
Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!
War has given you peace, Clifford, because you are still and motionless now. Peace to his soul, heaven, if it's your will!
War's given you peace now—you're dead and still. May his soul find peace in heaven, if that's what heaven chooses.
you're dead. at peace finally. may heaven give you peace.
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. [_Sees 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 ordained, 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 turned 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.
Shame and chaos! We're being routed. Fear causes disorder, and it wounds where it should defend. O war, child of hell, tool of angry heaven, pour hot coals of vengeance into our army's frozen hearts! Let no soldier flee. The soldier truly dedicated to war has no love for himself; and whoever loves himself cannot truly have the name of valor—only by circumstance. [Sees his dead father.] O, let this vile world end and let Judgment Day's promised flames bind earth and heaven together! Let the great trumpet sound and all smaller voices cease! Father, were you meant to grow old peacefully, only to die this way in brutal battle? At this sight my heart has turned to stone, and as long as it's mine it will remain stone. York doesn't spare our old men; I will no longer spare their babies. The innocent tears of young women will mean nothing to me—like water on fire. And beauty, which tyrants often try to keep, will only fuel my burning rage like oil and flax. From now on I will have nothing to do with pity. If I meet a child of York's house, I will cut it into as many pieces as wild Medea cut her brother Absyrtus. I will gain my name through cruelty.
This is a disaster! We're being destroyed. Fear is making us panic, and we're hurting each other instead of the enemy. War, you devil's child, sent by heaven itself, set our whole army on fire with the need for revenge! Don't let anyone run away. A real warrior doesn't love himself; anyone who does isn't truly brave. [He sees his father's corpse.] Oh, I want the world to end, I want Judgment Day to come and everything to burn. Let that great trumpet sound and drown out everything else! Father—you were supposed to grow old peacefully, and instead you die like this in battle? My heart is stone. I will never feel pity again. York's men didn't spare our old men, and now I won't spare their children either. I won't care when innocent girls cry. Nothing will stop my rage—not beauty, nothing. I'll find my glory by being as cruel as I can be. If I catch any York child, I'll tear them to pieces.
we're getting destroyed. fear is breaking us. war, you devil. pour vengeance into us. my father's dead. in a battle he shouldn't have been in. my heart is stone. i'm done with pity. i'm done with mercy. if i see any york kid, i'm cutting them to pieces. cruelty is my fame now.
Richard of Gloucester is probably fourteen or fifteen in this scene. He has had minimal stage presence in 5-1 — a few lines, aggressive but unremarkable. Here he kills Somerset and delivers six lines. Of those six lines, the last is the one that matters: 'Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.' It is a rhetorical formula (priests do X, princes do Y) that functions as a personal manifesto. Richard is not saying what princes should do; he is saying what he will do, and he is marking himself as someone who has already decided that ordinary moral categories don't apply to him. This is the seed of Richard III — a man who by Richard III will be soliloquizing about his own villainy with the same cold pleasure he shows here. What makes it chilling is not the content but the tone: he is not rationalizing. He is not in distress. He is perfectly calm, admiring his own sword, announcing his philosophy of action as if it were obvious. It is.
So, lie thou there;
For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign,
The Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset
Hath made the wizard famous in his death.
Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still!
Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.
So lie there. Under the cheap sign of The Castle tavern in Saint Albans, Somerset the sorcerer has made himself famous by dying. Sword, stay sharp; heart, stay full of wrath! Priests may pray for their enemies, but princes kill them.
Stay down then. You'll be remembered—lying dead under the sign of The Castle tavern in Saint Albans. You wanted to be famous, and now you are, dead. Sword, keep your edge. Heart, stay angry. Priests might pray for their enemies, but we princes just kill them.
you're dead under the castle sign. that's your fame now. i stay sharp, stay angry. we don't pray—we kill.
Away, my lord! You are slow, for shame, away!
Go, my lord! You're moving too slowly. For shame, flee!
Let's go! Come on, you're too slow! Run!
go! you're too slow. run!
Old Clifford's exchange with York before they fight is a small masterpiece of the chivalric code that this play is in the process of destroying. Both men compliment each other's valor. York says he could love Clifford if he weren't his enemy. Clifford says York's prowess would earn esteem if it weren't in treason. They are adversaries who recognize each other as honorable men on opposite sides — the medieval ideal of noble combat. Then Clifford dies in four lines with a French proverb. His son's response is to vow to cut York infants to pieces. The structural point Shakespeare is making is exact: the old honorable war ends with Old Clifford's death, and the new savage war begins with Young Clifford's vow. The chivalric world and the vendetta world cannot coexist, and the scene shows precisely when one ends and the other begins.
Can we outrun the heavens? Good Margaret, stay.
Can we escape from heaven's will? Good Margaret, let us wait.
Can we really outrun fate? Margaret, let's stop and stay.
we can't escape what heaven wants. let's just stay.
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.
What are you made of? You won't fight or flee. Now is true manhood, wisdom, and defense to give the enemy our position and to protect ourselves by the only means we have left—flight.
What's wrong with you? You won't fight and you won't run. Manhood and wisdom right now means getting out of here—that's our only defense. We have to flee to stay alive.
you're useless. won't fight, won't run. real men run when they have to. let's go.
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!
If my heart weren't set on future revenge, I would curse the heavens rather than tell you to flee. But flee you must, because hopeless despair rules in the hearts of all our soldiers. Go, to save yourself! And we will survive to see better days and turn their fortune against them. Go, my lord, go!
If I weren't already planning how to get revenge later, I'd curse the sky rather than tell you to run. But you have to go—our army is broken and despairing. Get out of here! We'll survive, and someday we'll get payback. Now go, hurry!
i want to fight back but we have to go. everyone's broken. save yourself. we'll come back and get them. now run!
The Reckoning
This is the hinge of the whole play — the moment English civil war becomes real, permanent, and personal. Everything before this was politics: maneuvers, arrests, accusations, armies marching. Here it becomes grief. Young Clifford's speech over his father's body is where the Wars of the Roses truly begin, not as ideology but as vendetta. The prophecy about Somerset dying under a castle is fulfilled in the most sardonic way possible: not in a fortress but under a pub sign. And Richard — who barely spoke in 5-1 — gets his defining line: 'Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.' This is the first glimpse of the character who will become Richard III.
If this happened today…
The corporate war between two family dynasties reaches its first real casualty: the patriarch of one side is killed in a hostile takeover. His son arrives to find him dead in the boardroom. In that moment, the son — who was principled, restrained, strategic — decides that none of those qualities matter anymore. Meanwhile, the rival family's youngest, the one everyone underestimated, calmly executes the CFO under a sign that a fortune-teller once said would be his doom. The sign over the door reads 'Castle Bar and Grill.'