Richard: Yet rhyme is fit for one chamber, if you'll hear me name it.

Lady Anne: Ill rest betide the chamber where thou rhyme liest.

Richard: So it will until I rhyme with you, but to leave this keen encounter of our wits, and fall into something of a gentler method...

I see a crowd of ashen-faced, woeful, slumped shadows. Persecuted by pedagogues, the shame shuffled shoulders of motley minions cower their conscience for the approval of disjointed, distracted, dissonance.

But wait...

Is not the causer of this rhyming death, the vapid and pretentious of thought, as blameful as the executioner?

Lady Anne: If I thought that, I tell thee homicide, these nailes should rend that rhyme from my lips.

Me: But to fall into a gentler mode, perhaps the words of Puck rather than a Plantagenet would be more fitting.

If we shadows have offended

Think but this and all is mended

That you have but slumbered here

While these vision did appear

And this weak and idle theme

No more yielding, but a dream,

Gentles do not reprehend.

If you pardon we will mend.

Thank you for the detailed and illuminating analysis of rhyme. I apologise for the Bard's abridgement.