An. Fouler then heart can thinke thee,
Thou can'st make no excuse currant,
But to hang thy selfe
Rich. By such dispaire, I should accuse my selfe
An. And by dispairing shalt thou stand excused,
For doing worthy Vengeance on thy selfe,
That did'st vnworthy slaughter vpon others
Rich. Say that I slew them not
An. Then say they were not slaine:
But dead they are, and diuellish slaue by thee
Rich. I did not kill your Husband
An. Why then he is aliue
Rich. Nay, he is dead, and slaine by Edwards hands
An. In thy foule throat thou Ly'st,
Queene Margaret saw
Thy murd'rous Faulchion smoaking in his blood:
The which, thou once didd'st bend against her brest,
But that thy Brothers beate aside the point
Rich. I was prouoked by her sland'rous tongue,
That laid their guilt, vpon my guiltlesse Shoulders