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.