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Let there be no honour,
Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance ;

Where there's another man : the vows of women
Of no more bondage be, to where they are made,
Than they are to their virtues.

Cymbeline, A. 2, S. 4,
Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming,
By the revolt, О husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy; not born, where't grows ;
But worn, a bait for ladies. Cymbeline, A. 3, S. 4.

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As far as I see, all the good our English
Have got by the late voyage, is but merely
A fit or two o' the face. Henry VIII. A. 1, S. 3.

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? A fit or two of the face.] A fit of the face seems to be what we now term a grimace, an artificial cast of the countenance.

JOHNSON, “ A fit o' the face" seems rather to be a refemblance. He means that they had caught the manners of the French. It appears to be of the fame import as trick o' the face, which we now use, and which means nothing more than a likeness.

A, B,

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I HAVE be-dimm’d
The noon-tide sun, callid forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war.

Tempeft, A. 5, S. 1,
Who does i' the wars more than his captain can,
Becomes his captain's captain: and ambition,
The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss,
Than gain, which darkens him.
Antony and Cleopatra, A. 32

S. 1.
Will you again unknit
This churlish knot of all-abhorred war?
And move in that obedient orb again,
Where you did give a fair and natural light,
And be no more an exhal'd meteor,
A prodigy of fear, and a portent
Of broached mischief to the unborn times ?

Henry IV. P. 1, A. 5, S. 1.

Let them come;
They come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them :
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit,
Up to the ears in blood.

Henry IV. P.1, A, 4, S. T.
Įn thy faint slumbers, I by thee have watch'd,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars :
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep,



That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream.

Henry IV. P. 1, A. 2, S. 3.
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces.

Henry IV. P. 1, A. I, S. 1, Either be patient, and entreat me fair, Or with the clamorous report of war Thus will I drown your exclamations.

Richard III. A. 4, S. 4. Grim-visag’d War hath smooth’d his wrinkled front, And now,-instead of mounting barbed steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

Richard III. A. I, S. Į,

O War, thou son of hell,
Whom angry heavens do make their minister,
Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part
Hot coals of vengeance !

Henry VI. P. 2, A.

52 This is Mansieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that was his own phrase) that had the whole theo, rique of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practioe in the chape of his dagger. All's well that ends well, A. 42


3. Poor lord! is't I That chase thee from thy country, and expofe Those tender limbs of thine to the event Of the none-sparing war ?

All's well that ends well, A. 3, S. 2.

S. 2.

I 'Tis not the roundure of your old fac'd walls
Can hide you from our messengers of war.

King John, A. 2, S. 1,

His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields, Where noble fellows strike: war is no ftrife To the dark house, and the detested wife.

All's well that ends well, A. 2, S. 3. You shall find in the regiment of the Spinii, one captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his finister cheek; it was this very sword entrench'd it. All's well that ends well, Ą. 2, S. 1, Were half to half the world by the ears, and he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make Only my wars with him: he is a lion That I am proud to hunt. Coriolanus, A. I, S. 1. Think'st thou, that I will leave my kingly throne, Wherein my grandfire, and my father, sat? No: first shall war unpeople this my realm ; Ay, and their colours-often borne in France; And now in England, to our heart's great forraw; Shall be my winding-sheet.

Henry VI. P. 3, A, I, S. 1. This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light; What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.

Henry VI. P. 3, A. 2, S. 5.

What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace, nor war? the one affrights you,

I 'Tis not the rondure.] Rondure means the same as the French rondeur, i. e. the circle.

STEEVENS. To suppose that by.“ rondure” Philip means the roundnefs of their walls, that he is merely describing them as a circle, were highly absurd. By rondure we are to understand the round, the whole extent of the walls,

A. B.

The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese. Coriolanus, A. I, S. I.
Away, my disposition, and possess me
Some harlot's spirit! my throat of war be turn’d,
Which quired with my drum, into a pipe
Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice
That babies lulls alleep! Coriolanus, A. 3, S. 2,

You, lord archbishop,
Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself,
Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,
Into the harsh and boist'rous tongue of war?
Turning your books to graves ', your ink to blood,
Your pens to lances; and your tongue divine
To a loud trumpet, and a point of war?

Henry IV. P. 2, A. 4, S. 1,

copy now to men of groffer blood,
And teach them how to war !-And you, good yede

Whose limbs were made in England, shew us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding.

Henry V. A. 3, S. 1.

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* Turning your books to graves.] For graves Dr. Warburton very plausibly reads glaives, and is followed by Sir T. Hanmer.

JOHNSON We might perhaps as plausibly read greaves, i. e. armour for the legs: a kind of boots. Ben Jonson employs the word in his Hymenei.

“ Upon their legs they wore filver greaves.” I know not whether it be worth adding, that the metamorphosis of leathern covers of books into greaves, i. e. boots, feems to be more apposite than the conversion of thein into instruments of war.

STEEVENS. “ Glaives" is unquestionably the true reading. The metamorphosis (as Mr. Steevens calls it) of the covers of books into boots, is certainly more easy than the changing of them into fwords. But “ turning your books to glaves," is not to be taken literally :--the meaning is, quitting your books to take up arms.

A. B.

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