The weak point of the play lies in the second half of the plot; Andrea's death, lamentable as a catastrophe, achieves nothing, except, perhaps, the satisfaction of a hidden destiny. Those purposes which openly aim at his death are left incomplete. Lorenzo's deep schemes, from which much is expected, come to nothing; his revenge is certainly not glutted. Balthezar seeks to gain honour in victory, but is robbed of it by Horatio and his own soldiers. Then, too, the interest excited by Lorenzo's hatred leads us into something like a blind alley; Andrea escapes and the whole scene is transferred to the battle-field. Nevertheless, the play offers compensations. It provides one or two striking scenes, possibly the best being that in which we watch, in suspense, the mutual destruction of Lorenzo's plans. The verse, again, has many fine lines and vigorous passages. On the whole it is perhaps less studied, more natural and animated than Kyd's later verse. Rhyme is used freely, yet without forcing itself upon our notice with leaden pauses. From among many quotable passages the following may be selected for their energy. (1) [_The Portuguese Court._ ANDREA _and_ BALTHEZAR _exchange defiance._] _Andrea._ Prince Balthezar, shall's meet? _Balthezar._ Meet, Don Andrea? yes, in the battle's bowels; Here is my gage, a never-failing pawn; 'Twill keep his day, his hour, nay minute, 'twill. _Andrea._ Then thine and this, possess one quality. _Balthezar._ O, let them kiss! Did I not understand thee noble, valiant, And worthy my sword's society with thee, For all Spain's wealth I'd not grasp hands. Meet Don Andrea? I tell thee, noble spirit, I'd wade up to the knees in blood, I'd make A bridge of Spanish carcases, to single thee Out of the gasping army. _Andrea._ Woot thou, prince? Why, even for that I love [thee]. _Balthezar._ Tut, love me, man, when we have drunk Hot blood together; wounds will tie An everlasting settled amity, And so shall thine. (2) [_On the battle-field_ ANDREA _searches for_ BALTHEZAR.] _Andrea._ --Prince Balthezar! Portugal's valiant heir! The glory of our foe, the heart of courage, The very soul of true nobility, I call thee by thy right name: answer me! Go, captain, pass the left wing squadron; hie: Mingle yourself again amidst the army; Pray, sweat to find him out.-- [_Exit_ Captain.] This place I'll keep. Now wounds are wide, and blood is very deep; 'Tis now about the heavy tread of battle; Soldiers drop down as thick as if death mowed them; As scythe-men trim the long-haired ruffian fields, So fast they fall, so fast to fate life yields.