Mr. Shdn. coida

That ftrain again! it had a dying fall;

O! it came o'er my ear like the fweet fouth,

That breathes upon a bank of violets
Stealing and giving odour!

Winter's Tale.

His eye begets occafion for his wit;
For every object that the one doth catch,
The other turns to a mirth-moving jeft,
Which he delivers in fuch gracious words,
That aged ears play truant at his tales
So fweet and voluble is his difcourfe.

Love's Labour Loft, Act I.

Mr. T. Stor-r.

Three fiends have been in poor Tom at once, of luft as Obedient! Mabu! of ftealing, and Flippertigibbet of mopping and mowing, who fince poffeffes chambermaids and waiting women.

He nimbly capers in a lady's chamber

To the lafcivious pleafing of a lute.

Lear.

Rich. III. A& I.

Mr. Hans S

You are most bound to the king

Who lets go by no 'vantages, that may

Prefer you; frame yourself

To orderly folicits, that you in all obey;
Save when command to your difmiffion tends,
And therein be you fenfelefs. Cymb. A& II.

Mr.

Mr. S-1-11.

-The world's large tongue

Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks,
Full of comparisons, and wounding flouts;
Which you on all eftates will execute
That lie within the mercy of your wit.

Love's Lab. Loft, Act V.

Mr. S- -kes.

I know you're now, Sir, a gentleman born,
Ay, and have been fo any time these four hours.

It is certain I am lov'd of all ladies, only you

excepted.

Much Ado, A& II.

Sir Fn Sk

ner.

Shall I never live to fee a batchelor of threescore again go to i'faith, and thou will needs thruft thy head into a yoke; wear the print of it, and figh away Sundays.

Much Ado.

I.

Lord Tem-le.

-Now banifh'd Kent,

If thou canft ferve where thou doft ftand con

demn'd,

So may it come, thy mafter whom thou lov'ft,

Shall find thee full of labours.

Lear, A&I.

E

Art thou any more than a Steward? Doft thou think, because thou art virtuous, there fhould be no more cakes and ale ?

Twelfth Night, A& II.

Lady T-t.

Bring forth men children only!

For thy undaunted metal should compofe

Nothing but males.

Macbeth, A&t I.

Lady Dow. Townsd.

She shall be buried with her face upward.

Lord Townf-d.

Much Ado.

I was driven on by my flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and indeed I did marry, that I might repent! All's Well.

And I have not forgotten what the infide of a church is made of-I am a pepper-corn- ---a brewer's horfe!-The infide of a church! Company, villainous company, hath been the fpoil of me.

Hen. IV. Part I. Act III.

Our general's eyes

That o'er the files and mufters of the war

Have

Have glow'd like plated Mars, now bend, now

turn

The office and devotion of their view

Upon a lady's front.

Anthony and Cleopatra, A& I.

Yet mine eyes

Were not in fault, for fhe was beautiful;

Mine ears, that heard her flattery, nor my heart That thought her like her feeming. It had been

vicious

To have miftrufted her.

Lady T-nf-d.

Cymb. A& V.

Alas! what would the wretched Edgar with

The more unfortunate Cordelia?

Who, in obedience to a father's will,

Flies from her Edgar's arms to Burgundy!

Lord T-1.

King Lear, A&t I.

-Oh, the curfe of marriage!

That we can call those delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapours of a dungeon,

Than keep a corner in the thing I love,

For other's ufe!

Othello, A&t III.

Lady Dory T-fon.

I would my horfe had the speed of your tongue,

and fo good a continuer !

Much Ado, A& 1.

Earl

Lady B. Tche. olma

But who dare tell her fo?

She'd mock me into air! O, fhe would laugh me out of myself! press me to death with wit! Much Ado, A& III.

Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.
Curs'd be the hand that made these fatal holes,
And makes me wretched by the death of thee.

King Richard III. A&I.

Poor honeft lord, brought low by his own heart,
Undone by goodness: ftrange, unufual blood.
When man's worft fin is, he does too much good,
Who then dares to be half fo kind again!
For bounty, that makes gods, does still marr men,
My dearest lord.
As You Like It.

Earl T-p-e.

Is your blood

So madly hot that no discourse of reason,
Nor fear of bad fuccefs in a bad caufe

Can qualify the fame ?