+Lor.+ She lives not, sure, in Milan! report but wore Her usual habit when she told in Verona She met Abstemia here. O Abstemia, How lovely thou look'st now! now thou appearest Chaster than is the morning's modesty, That rises with a blush, over whose bosom The western wind creeps softly. Now I remember How, when she sat at table, her obedient eye Would dwell on mine, as if it were not well, Unless it look'd where I look'd. O, how proud She was, when she could cross herself to please me! But where now is this fair soul? like a silver cloud, She hath wept herself, I fear, into th' dead sea, And will be found no more: this makes me mad, To rave and call on death; but the slave shrinks,[167] And is as far to find as she. Abstemia, If thou not answer or appear to knowledge, That here with shame I sought thee in this wood, I'll leave the blushing witness of my blood. [_Exit._ _Enter the +Duke of Milan+, +Sebastiano+, +Sanchio+, and the +Lord+._ +Mil.+ Followed you him thus far? +Lord.+ Just to this place, sir: The slave he loves left him; here they parted. +Mil.+ Certain, he has some private haunt this way. +Seb.+ Ha! private indeed, sir: O, behold and see Where he lies full of wounds! +Lord.+ My lord. +Mil.+ My son Antonio! who hath done this deed? +San.+ My Lord Antonio! +Mil.+ He's gone, he's gone! warm yet? bleeds fresh? and whilst We here hold passion play, we but advantage The flying murderer. Bear his body gently Unto the lodge. O, what hand hath so hid That sunlike face behind a crimson cloud! Use all means possible for life: but I fear Charity will arrive too late. To horse! Disperse through the wood: run, ride, make way, The sun in Milan is eclips'd this day! +Omnes.+ To horse, and raise more pursuit! [_Exeunt._ _Enter +Lorenzo+ with his sword drawn._ +Lor.+ Abstemia! O, take her name, you winds, upon your wings, And through the wanton region of the air Softly convey it to her. There's no sweet sufferance, Which bravely she pass'd through, but is a thorn Now to my sides: my will the centre stood To all her chaste endeavours: all her actions, With a perfection perpendicular, Pointed upon it. She is lost! O she, The well-built fort of virtue's victory! For still she conquer'd: since she is lost, then, My friendly sword, find thou my heart. +With.+ Follow, follow! _Enter +Duke of Milan+, +Sanchio+, and +Sebastiano.+_ +Mil.+ This way. What's he? lay hands on him. +Seb.+ The murd'rer, on my life, my lord, here in the wood Was close beset; he would have slain himself. +Mil.+ Speak, villain, art thou the bloody murderer? +Lor.+ Of whom? +San.+ His dissembled ignorance speaks him the man.