He says, my lord, that he hath murdered me.
Laz. Aye, Don Andrea, or else Don the devil.
And. Lay hands on him; some rear up
The bleeding body to the light.
Rog. My lord, I think ’tis you: were you not here,
A man might swear ’twere you.
And. His garments, ha! like mine, his face made like!
An ominous horror all my veins doth strike.
Sure, this portends my death; this misery
Aims at some fatal pointed tragedy.