APPENDIX 
219 
What with loathsome smells, 
And shrieks like mandrakes’ torn out of the earth, 
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad. 
IV. iii. 46. 
La. Cap. Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, 
nurse. 
Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. 
IV. iv. 1. 
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary 
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is, 
In all her best array bear her to church: 
For though fond nature bids us all lament, 
Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. 
IV. v. 79. 
About his shelves 
A beggarly account of empty boxes, 
Green earthen pots, bladders and musty seeds, 
Remnants of packthread and old cakes of roses, 
Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show. 
V. i. 44. 
Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along, 
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground. 
V. iii. 3. 
Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, 
I dreamt my master and another fought, 
And that my master slew him. 
V. iii. 137. 
TIMON OF ATHENS. 
Alcib. Is this the balsam that the usuring senate 
Pours into captains’ wounds ? Banishment! 
III. v. no. 
. . . Rose-cheeked youth. 
IV. iii. 87. 
O, a root,—dear thanks !— 
Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas ; 
Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts 
And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind, 
That from it all consideration slips ! 
IV. iii. 192. 
