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?