SCENE V.

_Open Country._

_Enter the MARQUIS OF MONTAGUE, EGBERT, and other LORDS of the White Rose Party, SOLDIERS, &c._

_Mont._ Cheerly, my valiant friends! the field is ours. The scatter'd Roses of the Lancasters, Now deeper tinted, blush a double red, In shame of this defeat. Oh! this will much Rejoice King Edward!--Say, has any friend Made Henry sure?

_Egbert._ He is escaped alone, my lord! and Margaret, Who, with her little son, went, hand in hand, Hovering about the field, with anxious hope, Ev'n to the very last; when she perceived Her lines broke thro'--her troops almost dispersed,-- She hung upon her boy, in silent anguish, Till the big tear dropt in his lily neck: Then, kissing him, as by a sudden impulse, Which mothers feel, she snatch'd him to her bosom, And fled with her young treasure in her arms:---- Nature so spoke in't, that our very soldiers Were soften'd at the scene, and, dull'd with pity, Grew sluggish in pursuit.

_Mont._ Well, let them go:-- Their cause is, now, become so weak, and sickly, That, tho' the head exist, to plot fresh mischief, They will want limbs to execute,--Their House, (Once strong and mighty,) like a a palsied Hercules, Must, now, lament it has outlived its powers.-- Meantime, as we return, in pride of conquest, Let us impress the minds of Englishmen With new-won glories of the House of York. Strike drum!--Sound trumpet!--Let the air be rent, With high and martial songs of victory.

GRAND CHORUS.

_Strike!--the God of Conquest sheds_ _His choicest laurels on our heads:_ _Mars, with fury-darting eye,_ _Smooths his brow, and stalks before us;_ _Leading our triumphant chorus,_ _Hand in hand, with victory._ _And hark! the thund'ring drum, and fife's shrill tone,_ _With brazen trumpet's clang, proclaim the day our own._

[_Huzzas._

ACT THE SECOND.