He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband

Richard
He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband
Did it to help thee to a better husband.
Anne
His better doth not breathe upon the earth.
Richard
He lives that loves thee better than he could.
Anne
Name him.
Richard
Plantagenet.

My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word.
But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,
My proud heart sues and prompts my tongue to speak.

Anne
Why, that was he.
Richard
The selfsame name, but one of better nature.
Anne
Where is he?
Richard
Here.  She spits at him.  Why dost
thou spit at me?
Anne
Would it were mortal poison for thy sake.
Richard
Never came poison from so sweet a place.
Anne
Never hung poison on a fouler toad.
Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes.
Richard
Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.
Anne
Would they were basilisks’ to strike thee dead.
Richard
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,
Shamed their aspects 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
When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him;
Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,
Told the sad story of my father’s death
And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,
That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks
Like trees bedashed with rain—in that sad time,
My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;
And what these sorrows could not thence exhale
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.
I never sued to friend nor enemy;
My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word.
But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,
My proud heart sues and prompts my tongue to speak.
   She looks scornfully at him.
Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,
Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword,
Which if thou please to hide in this true breast
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,
I lay it naked to the deadly stroke
And humbly beg the death upon my knee.
   He kneels and lays his breast open;
      she offers at it with his sword.
Nay, do not pause, for I did kill King Henry—
But ’twas thy beauty that provokèd me.
Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabbed young Edward—
But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.
   She falls the sword.
Take up the sword again, or take up me.
Anne
Arise, dissembler. Though I wish thy death,
I will not be thy executioner.