Your hands!
Mar.There's death in that damp, clammy grasp.[74]
Oh, God!—My Foscari, how fare you?
Jac. Fos.Well![He dies.
Offi. He's gone!
Doge.He's free.
Mar.No—no, he is not dead;
There must be life yet in that heart—he could not[bs]
Thus leave me.
Doge.Daughter!