Let there be no honour,

Where there is beauty; truth, where femblance;

love,

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 feeming,
By the revolt, O husband, fhall be thought
Put on for villainy; not born, where't grows;
But worn, a bait for ladies. Cymbeline, A. 3, S. 4,

VOYAGE.

As far as I fee, 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.

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

"A fit o' the face" feems 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

WAR

W.

WAR, WAR S.

I HAVE be-dimm’d

The noon-tide fun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green fea 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 foldier's virtue, rather makes choice of lofs,
Than gain, which darkens him.

Antony and Cleopatra, A. 3, 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 mifchief to the unborn times?

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

Let them come;

They come like facrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey'd maid of fmoky war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them:
The mailed Mars fhall on his altar fit,
Up to the ears in blood.

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

In thy faint flumbers, I by thee have watch'd,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars:
Thy fpirit within thee hath been fo at war,
And thus hath fo beftirr'd thee in thy fleep,

Ff4

That

That beads of fweat have ftood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-difturbed ftream.

Henry IV. P. 1, A. 2, S. 3.

No more the thirsty entrance of this foil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood;
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruife her flow'rets with the armed hoofs

Of hoftile paces.

Henry IV. P. 1, A. 1, 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-vifag'd War hath smooth'd his wrinkled front,
And now,-instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the fouls of fearful adversaries,→
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,

To the lafcivious pleafing of a lute.

Richard III. A. 1, S. Į.

O War, thou fon of hell,

Whom angry heavens do make their minifter,
Throw in the frozen bofoms of our part

Hot coals of vengeance!

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

This is Monfieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that was his own phrafe) that had the whole theorique of war in the knot of his fcarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.

All's well that ends well, A. 4, S. 3.

Poor lord! is't I

That chafe thee from thy country, and expofe
Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-fparing war?

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

'Tis

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

King John, A. 2, S. 1.
His present gift

Shall furnish me to those Italian fields,
Where noble fellows ftrike: war is no ftrife
To the dark houfe, and the detefted 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 finifter cheek; it was this very fword entrench'd it. All's well that ends well, A. 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. 1, S. 1.

Think'ft thou, that I will leave my kingly throne,
Wherein my grandfire, and my father, fat?
No: firft fhall war unpeople this my realm;
Ay, and their colours-often borne in France;
And now in England, to our heart's great
Shall be my winding-fheet.

forrow;

Henry VI. P. 3, A. 1, S. 1.

This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the fhepherd, 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 fame as the French rondeur, i. e. the circle. STEEVENS.

To fuppofe that by "rondure" Philip means the roundness of their walls, that he is merely defcribing them as a circle, were highly abfurd. By rondure we are to understand the round, the whole extent of the walls.

A. B.

The

The other makes you proud. He that trufts to you,. Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geefe.

Coriolanus, A. 1, S. 1.

Away, my difpofition, and poffefs me

Some harlot's fpirit! 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 afleep! Coriolanus, A. 3, S. 2. You, lord archbishop,

Wherefore do you fo ill tranflate yourself,

Out of the fpeech of peace, that bears fuch grace, Into the harsh and boift'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.

Be copy now to men of groffer blood,

And teach them how to war!-And you, good yeo

men,

Whose limbs were made in England, fhew us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding.

Henry V. A. 3, S. 1.

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

We might perhaps as plaufibly read greaves, i. e. armour for the legs: a kind of boots. Ben Jonfon employs the word in his Hymenai.

"Upon their legs they wore filver greaves."

I know not whether it be worth adding, that the metamorphofis of leathern covers of books into greaves, i. e. boots, feems to be more appofite than the converfion of them into inftruments of war. STEEVENS.

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

A. B.

Mothers