Act I, Scene 1 [A house near London]
Omnes
Lights, lights, bring torches, knaves!
Lancaster
Shut to the gates,
Let no man out until the house be searched.
York
Call for our coaches, let us away good brother
Now by the blest saints, I fear we are poisoned all.
Arundel
Poisoned my Lord?
Lancaster
Ay, ay, good Arundel, it is high time begone.
May heaven be blest for this prevention.
York
God, for thy mercy! would our cousin King
So cozen us, to poison us in our meat?
Lancaster
Has no man here some helping antidote
For fear already we have taken some dram?
What thinkest thou, Cheyney, thou first broughtst the
Tidings. are we not poisoned, thinkest thou?
Cheyney
Fear not, my Lords.
That mischievous potion was as yet unserved.
It was a liquid bane dissolved in wine
Which after supper should have been caroused
To young King Richardâs health.
Lancaster
Good in faith! are his Unclesâ deaths become
Health to King Richard? how came it out?
Sir Thomas Cheyney, pray resolve us.
Cheyney
A Carmelite friar, my Lord, revealed the plot
And should have acted it, but touched in conscience
He came to your good brother, the Lord Protector,
And so disclosed it; who straight sent me to you.
York
The Lord protect him for it, ay, and our cousin
King. high heaven be judge, we wish all good to him.
Lancaster
A heavy charge, good Woodstock, hast thou had
To be protector to so wild a prince
So far degenerate from his noble father
Whom the trembling French the black prince called
Not of a swart and melancholy brow
(For sweet and lovely was his countenance)
But that he made so many funeral days
In mournful France: the warlike battles won
At Crecy field, Poitiers, Artoise and Maine
Made all France groan under his conquering arm.
But heaven forestalled his diadem on earth
To place him with a royal crown in heaven.
Rise may his dust to glory! ere he would have done
A deed so base unto his enemy,
Much less unto the brothers of his father,
He would first have lost his royal blood in drops,
Dissolved the strings of his humanity
And lost that livelihood that was preserved
To make his (unlike) son a wanton King.
York
Forbear, good John-of-Gaunt; believe me, brother
We may do wrong unto our cousin King.
I fear his flattering minions more than him.
Lancaster
By the blest virgin, noble Edmund York
I am past all patience. poison his subjects,
His royal Uncles! why, the proud Castilian
Where John-of-Gaunt writes King and sovereign,
Would not throw off their vild and servile yoke
By treachery so base. patience, gracious Heaven!
Arundel
A good invoke, right princely Lancaster,
Calm thy high spleen. sir Thomas Cheyney here
Can tell the circumstance; pray give him leave.
Lancaster
Well, let him speak.
Cheyney
It is certainly made known, my reverend Lords,
To your loved brother, and the good protector
That n...