Viol. O quick! begone! My life hangs on a thread
While yours is in this peril.
Lope. That alone
Should make me fly to save it. Farewell, lady.
Farewell, Don Mendo.
Men. and Viol. Farewell!
Lope. What strange things
One sun between his rise and setting brings!
[Exit.
Men. Let us anticipate, and so detain