Shall mount aloft upon the whirlwind’s wing.
Her scorn was magnificent. Her reply to Dionysius, when he asks her to induce her husband to withdraw his army—
Thinkest thou then
So meanly of my Phocion? Dost thou deem him
Poorly wound up to a mere fit of valour,
To melt away in a weak woman’s tears?
Oh, thou dost little know him.
At the last line, Boaden tells us, there was a triumphant hurry and enjoyment in her scorn, which the audience caught as electrical and applauded in rapture, for at least a minute:—
A daughter’s arm, fell monster, strikes the blow!
Yes, first she strikes—an injured daughter’s arm