[♦] Out of my sight! thou dost infect my eyes.
150 Glou. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.
Anne. Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!
Glou. I would they were, that I might die at once;
[♦] For now they kill me with a living death.
Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,
[155] Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops:
[♦] These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear,
[♦] No, when my father York and Edward wept,
To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made