+Ant.+ 'Tis Millicenta, and wondrous aptly, For she is mistress of a hundred thousand holy heavenly thoughts. Chastely I love her now, and she must know it: Such wondrous wealth is virtue, it makes the woman Wears it about her worthy of a king, Since kings can be but virtuous: farewell. A crown is but the care of deceiv'd life; He's king of men is crown'd with such a wife. [_Exit +Antonio+, and the +Lord+ after him._ +Slave.+ Are your thoughts levell'd at that white, then?[164] This shall to th' duke your dad, sir. He can never talk with me,[165] But he twits me still with, _I took thee at that fight We made before Palermo_! I did command Men as he did there, Turks and valiant men: And though to wind myself up for his ruin, That I may fall and crush him, I appear To renounce Mahomet, and seem a Christian, 'Tis but conveniently to stab this Christian, Or any way confound him, and 'scape cleanly. Ere[166] one expects the deed: to hasten it, This letter came even now, which likewise certifies He waits me three leagues off, with a horse for flight Of a Turkish captain, commander of a galley. He keeps me as his slave, because indeed I play'd the devil at sea with him; but having Thus wrought myself into him, I intend To give him but this day to take his leave Of the whole world. He will come back by twilight: I'll wait him with a pistol. O sweet revenge! Laugh, our great prophet, he shall understand, When we think death farthest off, he's nearest hand. _Enter +Philippo+._ +Phil.+ You and I must meet no more, sir: there's your kick again. [_Kicks him._ +Slave.+ Hold, hold! what mean you, sir? +Phil.+ I have brought your kick back, sir---- [_Shoots him._ +Slave.+ Hold, man, I am not---- [_Falls._ +Phil.+ Thou hast spoken true, thou art not---- What art thou? But I am for Verona. [_Exit._ +Slave.+ Mine own words catch me: 'tis I now understand, When we think death farthest off, he's nearest hand. [_Dies._ _Enter +Lorenzo+._