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.
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!