Sear'd otherwife; no worse of worst extended, All's well that ends well, A. 2, S. 1. At fuch a point, When half to half the world oppos'd, he being The meered queftion: 'twas a fhame no lefs Than was his lofs, to courfe your flying flags, And leave his navy gazing. Antony and Cleopatra, A. 3, S. 11. SICK N ES S. I was writing of my epitaph, It will be feen to-morrow; my long fickness Timon of Athens, A 5, S. 2. "A divulged fhame, "Traduced by odious ballads; my maiden name "Sear'd otherwife;-and worfe, if worse, attended i. e. I would fubmit to shame, and become the fubject of odious ballads; my maiden reputation fhould be otherwife feared and branded; and if any thing can be worfe, or more dreadful than this, my life fhould willingly be ended in torture. I be being A. B. The meered question.] The meered question is a term I do not understand. I know not what to offer, except "The mooted question," That is, the difputed point, the subject of debate; mere is indeed a boundary, and the meered queftion, if it can mean any thing, may, with some violence of language, mean, the difputed boun dary. JOHNSON. Meered may be a word of our author's own formation, from He being the fole, the entire subject of dispute. mere. MALONE. Shakespeare, I fhould think, wrote meeteft." He being the "meetest question," i. e. he being the propereft perfon to anfwer the attack of Cæfar, not you. Bb A. B. Like Like a fickness, did I loath this food: Midfummer Night's Dream, A. 4, S. 1. SILENC E. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could fay how much. Much ado about nothing, A. 2, S. 1. Silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dry'd, and a maid not vendible. Merchant of Venice, A. 1, S. 1. I. I think, the best grace of wit will shortly turn into filence, and difcourfe grow commendable in none only but parrots. Merchant of Venice, A. 3, S. 5. Rome's readiest champions, repofe you here, Titus Andronicus, A. 1, S. 2. Her fmoothness, Her very filence, and her patience, As you like it, A. 1, S. 3. I pray you all, Hamlet, A. 1, S. 2. SIN, Our compell'd fins Stand more for number than for accompt. Measure for Measure, A. 2, S. 4. -Confefs thee freely of thy fin; For to deny each article with oath, Cannot remove, nor choak, the strong conception That I do groan withal. Othello, A. 5, S. 2. SLAN DE R. I am difgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here; For ever hous'd, where it once gets poffeffion. Comedy of Errors, A. 3, S. 1. Can tie the gall up in the flanderous tongue? Measure for Measure, A. 3, S. 2. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Cymbeline, A. 4, S. 2. Laertes, I must common with your grief, Make choice of whom your wifeft friends you will, you and me. Hamlet, A. 4, S. 5. Fear not flander, cenfure rash.] Perhaps, "Fear not flander's cenfure rafh." The text, I think, is right. Slander is fomething worse. JOHNSON. "Cenfure rash" is hafty opinion. A, B, 'Tis flander; Whofe edge is fharper than the fword; whofe tongue All corners of the world; kings, queens, and ftates, Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank, Transports his poison'd shot, may miss our name, Hamlet, A. 4, S. 1. SLEE P. -O'er their brows death-counterfeiting fleep With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep. Midfummer Night's Dream, A. 3, *I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee; S. 2. And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, Sleep, that fometimes shuts up Midfummer Night's Dream, A. 3, S. 2, In revenge of my contempt of love, Love hath chac'd fleep from my enthralled eyes, Do come with words as med'cinal as true; Honeft, as either; to purge him of that humour, That preffes him from fleep. To fee his noblenefs! Winter's Tale, A. 2, S. 3. Conceiving the difhonour of his mother, 'He flraight declined, droop'd, took it deeply, Threw Threw off his fpirit, his appetite, his fleep, And downright languifh'd. Winter's Tale, A. 2, S. 3. Nor fleep, nor fanctuary, Being naked, fick; nor fane, nor capitol, Coriolanus, A. 1, S. 10. Coriolanus, A. 4, S. 5. Canft thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Henry IV. P. 2, A. 3, S. 1. O gentle fleep, Nature's foft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down, And steep my fenfes in forgetfulness? Henry IV. P. 2, A. 3, S. 1. Why rather, fleep, ly'st thou in fmoky cribs, Upon uneafy pallets ftretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber; Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Bb 3 Under |