+Ver.+ In that I am a kinsman To the accuser, that I might not appear Partial in judgment, let it seem no wonder If unto your gravities I leave The following sentence: but as Lorenzo stands A kinsman to Verona, so forget not, Abstemia still is sister unto Venice. +Phil.+ Misery of goodness! +Abs.+ O Lorenzo Medico![131] Abstemia's lover once, when he did vow And when I did believe; then when Abstemia Denied so many princes for Lorenzo, Then when you swore. O maids! how men can weep, Print protestations on their breasts and sigh, And look so truly, and then weep again, And then protest again, and again dissemble! When once enjoy'd, like strange sights we grow stale, And find our comforts, like their wonder, fail. +Phil.+ O Lorenzo! Look upon tears, each one of which, well-valued, Is worth the pity of a king; but thou Art harder far than rocks, and can'st not prize The precious waters of truth's injur'd eyes. +Lor.+ Please your grace, proceed to censure. +Ver.+ Thus 'tis decreed, as these lords have set down Against all contradiction. Signor Philippo, In that you have thus grossly, sir, dishonour'd Even our blood itself in this rude injury Lights on our kinsman, his prerogative Implies death on your trespass; but your merit, Of more antiquity is than your trespass, That death is[132] blotted out, and in the place Banishment writ, perpetual banishment (On pain of death, if you return) for ever, From Verona and her signories. +Phil.+ Verona is kind. +Pan.+ Unto you, madam, This censure is allotted. Your high blood Takes off the danger of the law, nay, from Even banishment itself. This lord your husband Sues only for a legal fair divorce, Which we think good to grant, the church allowing: And in that the injury chiefly reflects On him, he hath free licence to marry, when And whom he pleases. +Abs.+ I thank ye, That you are favourable unto my love, Whom yet I love and weep for. +Phil.+ Farewell, Lorenzo. This breast did never yet harbour a thought Of thee, but man was in it, honest man: There's all the words that thou art worth. Of your grace, I humbly thus take leave: farewell, my lords: And lastly farewell thou, fairest of many, Yet by far more unfortunate. Look up And see a crown held for thee; win it, and die Love's martyr, the sad map of injury: And so remember, sir, your injur'd lady Has a brother yet in Venice.