Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull’d with sounds of sweetest inelody?

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

Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of Number : Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'ít so found.

Julius Cæfar, A. 2, S. 1. Fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones.

Measure for Measure, A. 4, S. 2.

- Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy fyrups of the world, Shall ever med'cine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow’dst yesterday. Othello, A. 3, S. 3.

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S M I L E.

Ghaftly looks
Are at my service, like enforced smiles;
And both are ready in their offices,
At any time, to grace my stratagems.

Richard III. A. 3, S. 5.
What thou wilt,
Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile,
Than hew to’t with thy sword.

Timon of Athens, A. 5, S. 5. In Richard's time,-What do you call the place? – A plague upon't !—it is in Glostershire ; 'Twas

where the mad-cap duke his uncle kept, His uncle York;—where I first bow'd my knee Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke.

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


S Ν ο W.
O thou sweet king-killer, and dear divorce
'Twixt natural son and fire! thou bright defiler
Of Hymen's purest bed! thou valiant Mars !
Thou ever young, freih, lov'd, and delicate wooer,
Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow
That lies on Dian's lap!

Timon of Athens, A. 4, S. 3.

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so C I ET Y.

This is worshipful society,
And fits the mounting spirit; like myself:
For he is but a bastard to the time,
That doth not fmack of observation.

King John, A. 1, S. I.

So please you, leave me ;
Stick to your journal course : the breach of custom
Is breach of all. I am ill; but your being by me
Cannot amend me : society is no comfort
To one not fociable.

Cymbeline, A. 4, S. 2.

Could such inordinate, and low desires,
Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match'd withal, and grafted to,
Accompany the greatness of thy blood,
And hold their level with thy princely heart?

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

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When a soldier was the theme, my name
Was 'not far off: then was I as a tree,
Whofe boughs did bend with fruit; but, in one

A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,



Shook down my.mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather. Cymbeline, A. 3, S. 3,

Our slippery people
(Whose love is never link'd to the deserver,
Till his deserts are past) begin to throw
Pompey the great, and all his dignities
Upon his son ; who, high in name and power,
Higher than both in blood and life, stands up
For the main foldier.

Antony and Cleopatra, A. 1, S. 2. If I be not alhamed of my foldiers, I am a fouc'd gurnet : I have misus'd the king's press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty foldiers, three hundred and odd pounds.

Henry IV. P. 1, A. 4, As the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse, Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

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

Debonair, unarm’d, As bending angels; that's their fame in peace: But when they would seemn soldiers, they have galls, Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove's

accord, Nothing so full of heart',

Troilus and Creffida, A. 1, S. 3:

S. 2.


they have galls,
Good arms, Arong joints, true fwords; and fove's accord,

Nothing so full of heart.] As this paffage is printed I cannot discover any meaning in it. If there be no corruption, the semicolon which is placed after words, ought rather to be placed after the word accord; of which, however, the sense is not very clear. I suspect that the transcriber's ear deceived him, and that we should read, 6 And Jove's a god," &c.

MALONE. “Accord” is certainly right. « Jove's accord” is, fove gives fanction to their proceedings. Yove is their protector."

A. B.


As you like it, A. 2, S. 7 SOL ( 377 ) SOL Their weapons like to lightning came and went; Our soldiers like the night-owl's lazy flight, Or like an idle thresher with a flail,Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

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

Then, a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth.

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Consider further,
That when he speaks not like a citizen,
You find him like a soldier: do not take
His rougher accents for malicious founds;
But, as I say, such as become a soldier,
Rather than envy you.

Coriolanus, A. 3, S. 3

In a moment, look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-Ihrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls; Your naked infants spitted upon pikes ; Whiles the mad mothers, with their howls confus'd, Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen.

Henry V. A. 3,

You inen of Harfleur,
Take pity of your town, and of your people,
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command;
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace
O'er-blows the filthy and contagious clouds
Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy.

Henry V. A. 3, S.

3. He was wont" to speak plain, and to the purpose, like an honest man, and a foldier; and now is he


S. 3.

turned orthographer ; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes.

Much ado about nothing, A. 2, S. 3.

Say to them, Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils, Haft not the soft way, which, thou dost confess, Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves. Coriolanus, A. 3, S. 2. Behold! I have a weapon : A better never did itself fustain Upon a soldier's thigh ; I have seen the day, That, with this little arm, and this good sword, I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. Othello, A. 5, S. 2. Oft have I seen the haughty cardinalMore like a soldier, than a man o'the church, As stout, and proud, as he were lord of all, Swear like a ruffian, and demean himself Unlike the ruler of a common-weal.

Henry VI. P. 2, A. 1, S. 1.

S O, N.
Take but degree away, untune that string,
And, hark, what discord follows! the bounded wa-

Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores,
And make a sop of all this folid globe :
Strength should be lord of imbecility,
And the rude fon should strike his father dead :
Force should be right.

Troilus and Cresida, A. I, S. 3.

If the deed were ill,
Be you contented, wearing now the garland,
To have a son set your decrees at nought;
To pluck down justice from your awful bench;


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