W. WAR, WARS. 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 I. Set roaring war. Antony and Cleopatra, A. 3, Will you again unknit This churlifh knot of all-abhorred war? And move in that obedient orb again, A prodigy of fear, and a portent Of broached mifchief to the unborn times? S. 1. Henry IV. P. 1, A. 5, S. 1. Let them come; They come like facrifices in their trim, Henry IV. P. 1, A. 4, S. 1. In thy faint flumbers, I by thee have watch'd, Ff4 That That beads of fweat have ftood upon thy brow, Henry IV. P. 1, A. 2, S. 3. No more the thirfty entrance of this foil Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood; Of hoftile paces. Henry IV. P. 1, A. 1, S. 1, Either be patient, and entreat me fair, Thus will I drown your exclamations. Richard III. A. 4, S. 4. Grim-vifag'd War hath smooth'd his wrinkled front, To the lafcivious pleafing of a lute." Richard III. A. 1, S. I, O War, thou fon of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minifter, Hot coals of vengeance! Henry VI. P. 2, A. 5, S. 2. This is Monfieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that was his own phrase) 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 Thofe 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.. Shall furnish me to those Italian fields, All's well that ends well, A. 2; S. 3. You fhall 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, Henry VI. P. 3, A. 1, S. 1. Henry VI. P. 3, A. 2, S. 5. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace, nor war? the one affrights you, '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 other makes you proud. He that trufts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese. Coriolanus, A. 1, S. 1. Away, my difpofition, and poffefs me Some harlot's fpirit! my throat of war be turn'd, Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice That babies lulls afleep! Coriolanus, A. 3, S. 2. You, lord archbishop, Wherefore do you so ill tranflate yourself, Out of the speech 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. I. Be copy now to men of groffer blood, your a And teach them how to war!-And you, good yeo, men, Whofe limbs were made in England, fhew us here The mettle of your pafture; 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 Hymenæi. "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 cafy than the changing of them into fords. But turning your books to glaves," is not to be taken hterally-the meaning is, quitting your books to take up arms. 6.6 A. B. -Mothers → Mothers fhall but fmile, when they behold Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war; All pity choak'd with custom of fell deeds: And Cæfar's fpirit, ranging for revenge, With Até by his fide, come hot from hell, Shall in thefe, confines, with a monarch's voice, Cry havock, and let flip the dogs of war. Julius Cæfar, A. Take heed how you impawn our person, How you awake the fleeping fword of war; Thy threat'ning colours now wind up, And tame the favage fpirit of wild War; King John, A. 5, S. 2. This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, To a moft bafe and vile-concluded peace. King John, A. 2, S. 2. O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed and the thrill trump, Pride, pomp, and circumftance of glorious war! He never did fall off, my fovereign liege, The He never did fall off, my fovereign liege, and |