Under the canopies of coftly ftate, And lull'd with founds of sweetest inelody? Henry IV. P. 2, A. 3, S. 1. Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of flumber : Which bufy care draws in the brains of men; Julius Cæfar, A. 2, S. 1. Faft lock'd up in fleep, as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones. Meafure for Measure, A. 4, S. 2. Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy fyrups of the world, SMIL E. Ghaftly looks Are at my fervice, like enforced fmiles; And both are ready in their offices, At any time, to grace my ftratagems. What thou wilt, Richard III. A. 3, S. 5. Thou rather fhalt enforce it with thy fmile, Timon of Athens, A. 5, S. 5. In Richard's time,-What do you call the place?— Henry IV. P. 1, A. 1, S. 3. SNOW. O thou fweet king-killer, and dear divorce That lies on Dian's lap ! Timon of Athens, A. 4, S. 3. SOCIETY. This is worshipful fociety, And fits the mounting fpirit; like myself: That doth not fmack of observation. King John, A. 1, S. 1. So please you, leave me ; Stick to your journal courfe: the breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill; but your being by me Cannot amend me: fociety is no comfort To one not fociable. Cymbeline, A. 4, S. 2. Could fuch inordinate, and low defires, As thou art match'd withal, and grafted to, And hold their level with thy princely heart? Henry IV, P. 1, A. 3, S. 2. SOL DIE R. When a foldier was the theme, my name Was 'not far off: then was I as a tree, Whofe boughs did bend with fruit; but, in one night, A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Bb 4 Shook Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, (Whose love is never link'd to the deserver, Antony and Cleopatra, A. 1, S. 2, If I be not ashamed of my foldiers, I am a fouc'd gurnet: I have mifus'd the king's prefs damnably. 1 have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty foldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. Henry IV. P. I, A. 4, S. 2. As the foldiers bore dead bodies by, He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a flovenly unhandsome corse, Betwixt the wind and his nobility. Henry IV. P. 1, A. 1, S. 3. As bending angels; that's their fame in peace: Nothing fo full of heart'. Troilus and Creffida, A. 1, S. 3. they have galls, Good arms, frong joints, true fwords; and Jove's accord, Nothing fo full of heart.] As this paffage is printed I cannot difcover any meaning in it. If there be no corruption, the femicolon which is placed after words, ought rather to be placed after the word accord; of which, however, the fenfe is not very clear. I fufpect that the tranfcriber's ear deceived him, and that we should read, "And Jove's a god," &c. MALONE. "Accord" is certainly right. "Jove's accord" is, Jove gives fanction to their proceedings. Jove is their protector." A. B. Their Their weapons like to lightning came and went ; Fell gently down, as if they ftruck their friends. Then, a foldier; Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Even in the cannon's mouth. Confider further, As you like it, A. 2, S. 7. That when he speaks not like a citizen, Coriolanus, A. 3, S. 3. In a moment, look to fee The blind and bloody foldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your fhrill-fhrieking daughters; Your fathers taken by the filver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls; Whiles the mad mothers, with their howls confus'd, Henry V. A. 3, S. 3. You men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town, and of your people, Whiles yet my yet my foldiers are in my command; Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O'er-blows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady murder, fpoil, and villainy. Henry V. A. 3, S. 3. He was wont to speak plain, and to the purpose, like an honeft man, and a foldier; and now is he turned 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 foldier, and being bred in broils, In asking their good loves. Coriolanus, A. 3, S. 2. A better never did itself fuftain Upon a foldier's thigh; I have seen the day, More like a foldier, than a man o' the church, Unlike the ruler of a common-weal. Henry VI. P. 2, A. 1, S. 1. SON. Take but degree away, untune that ftring, ters. Should lift their bofoms higher than the shores, Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude fon should strike his father dead: Troilus and Creffida, A. 1, S. 3. If the deed were ill, Be you contented, wearing now the garland, Το |