This, I confess, appears to me to be tragedy in masquerade. Nor is it, I think, accounted for, though it may be in part redeemed by her solemn address at the altar to the dead body of her husband. ‘_Cal._ Forgive me. Now I turn to thee, thou shadow Of my contracted lord! Bear witness all, I put my mother’s wedding-ring upon His finger; ’twas my father’s last bequest: (_Places a ring on the finger of_ Ithocles). Thus I new marry him, whose wife I am: Death shall not separate us. Oh, my lords, I but deceiv’d your eyes with antic gesture, When one news strait came huddling on another Of death, and death, and death: still I danc’d forward; But it struck home and here, and in an instant. Be such mere women, who with shrieks and outcries Can vow a present end to all their sorrow’s, Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outlive them. They are the silent griefs which cut the heartstrings: Let me die smiling. _Near._ ’Tis a truth too ominous. _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? _Aurelia._ Music. _Prepasso._ The Duke? is the Duke returned? _Aurelia._ Music. _Enter_ Celso. The Duke is quite invisible, or else is not. _Aurelia._ We are not pleased with your intrusion upon our private retirement; we are not pleased: you have forgot yourselves. _Enter a_ Page. _Celso._ Boy, thy master? where’s the Duke? _Page._ Alas, I left him burying the earth with his spread joyless limbs; he told me he was heavy, would sleep: bid me walk off, for the strength of fantasy oft made him talk in his dreams: I strait obeyed, nor ever saw him since; but wheresoe’er he is, he’s sad. _Aurelia._ Music, sound high, as in our heart; sound high. _Enter_ Malevole _and her Husband, disguised like a Hermit._ _Malevole._ The Duke? Peace, the Duke is dead. _Aurelia._ Music!’ _Act IV. Scene 3._