+Seb.+ Of the duke's son, the Prince Antonio, sir: 'Twas your hand that kill'd him. +Lor.+ Your lordship lies; it was my sword. +Mil.+ Out, slave! Ravens shall feed upon thee: speak, what cause Hadst thou with one unhappy wound to cloud That star of Milan? +Lor.+ Because he was an erring star, Not fix'd nor regular. I will resolve nothing: I did it, do not repent it; and were it To do again, I'd do't. +Omnes.+ Bloodthirsty villain! +Mil.+ Lead[168] him to swift destruction, tortures, and death. O my Antonio! how did thy youth stray, To meet wild winter in the midst of May? +Lor.+ O my Abstemia! who cast thy fate so bad, To clip[169] affliction, like a husband clad? [_Exeunt._ _Enter +Antonio+ and +Abstemia+._ +Abs.+ Good sir, the prince makes known his wisdom, To make you speaker in his cause. +Ant.+ Me? know, mistress, I have felt love's passions equal with himself, And can discourse of love's cause: had you seen him When he sent me to ye, how truly he did look; And when your name slipp'd through his trembling lips, A lover's lovely paleness straight possess'd him. +Abs.+ Fie, fie! +Ant.+ Go, says he, to that something more than woman-- And he look'd as if by something he meant saint; Tell her I saw heaven's army in her eyes, And that from her chaste heart such excellent goodness Came, like full rivers flowing, that there wants nothing But her soft yielding will to make her wife Unto the Prince Antonio. O, will you fly A fortune, which great ladies would pursue Upon their knees with prayers? +Abs.+ No, Lorenzo, Had law to this new love made no denial: A chaste wife's truth shines through the greatest trial. +Mor.+ How now, what make you i' th' wood here? Where's my old lady? +Abs.+ I know not. +Mor.+ All the country's in an uproar yonder: the Prince Antonio's slain. +Ambo.+ How! +Mor.+ Nay, no man can tell how; but the murd'rer with's sword in's hand is taken. +Ant.+ Is he of Milan? +Mor.+ No, of Verona: I heard his name, and I have forgot it. +Ant.+ I am all wonder; 'tis the slave, sure! +Mor.+ Lor--Lor--Lorenzo. +Abs.+ Ha, Lorenzo! What, I pray? +Mor.+ Lorenzo Me--Medico has run him in the eye, some thirty-three inches, two barleycorns: they could scarce know him for the blood, but by his apparel. I must find out my lady; he used our house; intelligence has been given of his pilgrimage thither. I am afraid I shall be singed to death with torches, and my lady stewed between two dishes. +Ant.+ Why hath this thus amazed you, mistress? +Abs.+ O, leave me, leave me: I am all distraction; Struck to the soul with sorrow. _Enter +Milan+, +Lords+, and +Lorenzo+ guarded._