Imatges de pàgina
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Sear'd otherwife; no worse of worst extended,
With vileft torture let my life be ended.

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
Of health, and living, now begins to mend,
And nothing brings me all things.

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
"With vilest torture let my life be ended."

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:
But, as in health, come to my natural taste,
Now do I wish it, love it, long for it.

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,
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps!
Here lurks no treafon, here no envy fwells,
Here grow no damned grudges; here no ftorm,
No noife, but filence and eternal fleep.

Titus Andronicus, A. 1, S. 2.

Her fmoothness,

Her very filence, and her patience,
Speak to the people.

As you like it, A. 1, S. 3.

I pray you all,
If
you have hitherto conceal'd this fight,
Let it be tenable in your filence ftill;
And whatsoever elfe fhall hap to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue.

Hamlet, A. 1, S. 2.

SIN,

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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;
Pierc'd to the foul with flander's venom'd spear;
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath'd this poifon. Richard II. A. 1, S. 1.
Slander lives upon fucceffion;

For ever hous'd, where it once gets poffeffion.

Comedy of Errors, A. 3, S. 1.
What king so strong,

Can tie the gall up in the flanderous tongue?

Measure for Measure, A. 3, S. 2.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not flander, cenfure rash ';
Thou haft finish'd joy and moan.

Cymbeline, A. 4, S. 2.

Laertes, I must common with your grief,
Or you deny me right. Go but apart,

Make choice of whom your wifeft friends you will,
And they shall hear and judge 'twixt

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,

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'Tis flander;

Whofe edge is fharper than the fword; whofe tongue
Out-venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie

All corners of the world; kings, queens, and ftates,
Maids, matrons, nay, the fecrets of the grave
This viperous flander enters. Cymbeline, A. 3, S. 4.
For haply, flander,

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,
And hit the woundless air.

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,
And fing, while thou on preffed flowers doft sleep.
Midsummer Night's Dream, A. 3, S. 1.
forrow's eye,
Steal me a while from mine own company.

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,
And made them watchers of mine own heart's forrow.
Two Gentlemen of Verona, A. 2, S. 4.
I

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,
The prayers of priests, nor times of facrifice,
Embarquements all of fury, fhall lift up
Their rotten privilege and cuftom 'gainst
My hate to Marcius.

Coriolanus, A. 1, S. 10.
Thou Mars! I tell thee,
We have a power of foot; and I had purpose
Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn,
Or lofe mine arm for't: thou haft beat me out
Twelve feveral times, and I have nightly fince
Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me;
We have been down together in my fleep,
Unbuckling helms, fifting each other's throat,
And wak'd half dead with nothing.

Coriolanus, A. 4, S. 5.

Canft thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet fea-boy in an hour fo rude!
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!
Uneafy lies the head that wears a crown.

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

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