Seb. The murd'rer, on my life, my lord, here in the wood
Was close beset; he would have slain himself.
Mil. Speak, villain, art thou the bloody murderer?
Lor. Of whom?
San. His dissembled ignorance speaks him the man.
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?