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.
Tempeft, A. 5, S. 1.
Who does i' the wars more than his captain can,
Becomes his captain's captain: and ambition,
The foldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss,
Than gain, which darkens him.

Antony and Cleopatra, A. 3,

Will you again unknit

This churlifh knot of all-abhorred war?

And move in that obedient orb again,
Where you did give a fair and natural light,
And be no more an exhal'd meteor,

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,
And to the fire-ey'd maid of fmoky war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them:
The mailed Mars fhall on his altar fit,
Up to the ears in blood.

Henry IV. P. 1, A. 4, S. 1.

In thy faint flumbers, I by thee have watch'd,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars:
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so beftirr'd thee in thy fleep,

Ff4

That

That beads of fweat have ftood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream.

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;
No more fhall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs

Of hoftile paces.

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

Either be patient, and entreat me fair,
Or with the clamorous report of war

Thus will I drown your exclamations.

Richard III. A. 4, S. 4.

Grim-vifag'd War hath smooth'd his wrinkled front,
And now,-instead of mounting barbed fteeds,
To fright the fouls of fearful adverfaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,

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,
Throw in the frozen bofoms of our part

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..
His prefent gift

Shall furnish me to those Italian fields,
Where noble fellows ftrike: war is no ftrife
To the dark houfe, and the detefted wife.

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,
Wherein my grandfire, and my father, fat?
No: firft fhall war unpeople this my realm;
Ay, and their colours-often borne in France;
And now in England, to our heart's great forrow;
Shall be my winding-fheet.

Henry VI. P. 3, A. 1, S. 1.
This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.

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,
Which quired with my drum, into a pipe

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;
We charge you, in the name of God, take heed:
For never two fuch kingdoms did contend,
Without much fall of blood. Henry V. A. 1, S. 2.

Thy threat'ning colours now wind up,

And tame the favage fpirit of wild War;
That, like a lion fofter'd up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of Peace.

King John, A. 5, S. 2.
This commodity,

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,
Clapt on the outward eye of fickle France,
Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid,
From a refolv'd and honourable war,

To a moft bafe and vile-concluded peace.

King John, A. 2, S. 2. O, farewell!

Farewell the neighing steed and the thrill trump,
The fpirit-ftirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner; and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumftance of glorious war!
Othello, A. 3, S. 3.

He never did fall off, my fovereign liege,
But by the chance of war. Henry IV. P. 1, A. 1, S. 3.

The

He never did fall off, my fovereign liege,
But by the chance of war.] A poor apology for a foldier

and