Cal. One kiss on these cold lips—my last: crack, crack:
Argos, now Sparta’s king, command the voices
Which wait at th’ altar, now to sing the song
I fitted for my end.’
And then, after the song, she dies.
This is the true false gallop of sentiment: any thing more artificial and mechanical I cannot conceive. The boldness of the attempt, however, the very extravagance, might argue the reliance of the author on the truth of feeling prompting him to hazard it; but the whole scene is a forced transposition of that already alluded to in Marston’s Malcontent. Even the form of the stage directions is the same.
‘Enter Mendozo supporting the Duchess; Guerrino; the Ladies that are on the stage rise. Ferrardo ushers in the Duchess; then takes a Lady to tread a measure.
Aurelia. We will dance: music: we will dance....
Enter Prepasso.
Who saw the Duke? the Duke?