+Ant.+ See where they come! My father full of tears, too. I'll stand by: Strange changes must have strange discovery. +Abs.+ 'Tis he: heart, how thou leap'st! O ye deluded, And full of false rash judgment! why do ye lead Innocence like a sacrifice to slaughter? Get garlands rather: let palm and laurel round[170] Those temples, where such wedlock-truth is found. +Lor.+ Ha! +Omnes.+ Wedlock! +Abs.+ O Lorenzo! thou hast suffer'd bravely, And wondrous far: look on me, here I come, Hurried by conscience to confess the deed. Thy innocent blood will be too great a burthen Upon the judge's soul. +Lor.+ Abstemia! +Abs.+ Look, look, How he will blind ye! by and by, he'll tell ye We saw not one another many a day; In love's cause we dare make our lives away. He would redeem mine: 'tis my husband, sir; Dearly we love together; but I, being often By the dead prince, your son, solicited To wrong my husband's bed, and still resisting, Where you found him dead he met me, and the place Presenting opportunity, he would there Have forc'd me to his will; but prizing honesty Far above proffer'd honour, with my knife, In my resistance, most unfortunately I struck him in the eye. He fell, was found, The pursuit rais'd, and ere I could get home My husband met me; I confess'd all to him. He, excellent in love as the sea-inhabitant, Of whom 'tis writ that, when the flatt'ring hook Has struck his female, he will help her off, Although he desperately put on himself, But if he fail, and see her leave his eye, He swims to land, will languish, and there die-- Such is his love to me; for, pursu'd closely, He bid me save myself, and he would stay With his drawn sword there about the place, on purpose To requite my loyalty, though with his death. Fear forc'd my acceptance then; but conscience Hath brought me back to preserve innocence. +Seb.+ The circumstances produce probability. +Lor.+ By truth herself she slanders truth: she and I Have not met these many months. O my Abstemia! Thou wouldst be now too excellent. +Ant.+ These are strange turns. +Mil.+ Let not love strangle justice. Speak: on thy soul, Was it her hand that slew the prince? +Lor.+ Not, on my life; 'Tis I have deserv'd death. +Abs.+ Love makes him desperate, Conscience is my accuser. O Lorenzo! [_The +Duke+ and +Lords+ whisper._ Live thou, and feed on my remembrance: When thou shalt think how ardently I love thee, Drop but a pair of tears from those fair eyes, Thou offer'st truth a wealthy sacrifice. +Lor.+ Did ye hear, sir? +Mil.+ No, what said she? +Lor.+ She ask'd me, why I would cast myself away thus, When she in love devis'd this trick to save me.