SCENE IH. The woods. Enter Timon. Tim. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orb* Infect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb,Whose procreation, residence, and birth, Scarce is dividant,-touch them with several fortunes; The greater scorns the lesser: Not nature, To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune, Raise me this beggar, and denude that lord; It is the pasture lards the brother's sides, The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares, In purity of manhood stand upright, And say, This man's a flatterer? if one be, * i. e. The moon's, this sublunary world. + But by is here used for without. Seize, gripe. I am no idle votarist *. Roots, you clear heavens ! Thus much of this, will make black, white; foul, fair; Wrong, right; base, noble; old, young; coward, valiant. Ha, you gods! why this? Why this What this, you gods? Will lug your priests and servants from your sides; Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd; But yet I'll bury thee: Thou'lt go, strong thief, Enter Alcibiades, with drum and fife, in warlike Alcib. Speak. What art thou there? Tim. A beast, as thou art. The canker knaw thy heart, For showing me again the eyes of man! Alcib. What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee, That art thyself a man? * No insincere or inconstant supplicant. Gold will not serve me instead of roots. + Sorrowful. i. e. Gold restores her to all the sweetness and freshness of youth. Tim. I am misanthropos, and hate mankind. For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something. Alcib. I know thee well; But in thy fortunes am unlearn'd and strange. Tim. I know thee too; and more, than that I know thee, I not desire to know. Follow thy drum; With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules: Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine Phr. Tim. I will not kiss thee; To thine own lips again. Thy lips rot off! then the rot returns Alcib. How came the noble Timon to this change? Tim. As the moon does, by wanting light to give: But then renew I could not, like the moon; There were no sums to borrow of. What is it, Timon? Tim. Promise me friendship, but perform none: If Thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for Thou art a man! If thou dost perform, confound thee, For thou'rt a man! Alcib. I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. Tim. Thou saw'st them, when I had prosperity. Alcib. I see them now; then was a blessed time. Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. Timan. Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world Voic'd so regardfully? Tim. Timan. Art thou Timandra? Yes. Tim. Be a whore still! they love thee not, that use thee Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. Timan. Hang thee, monster! Alcib. Pardon him, sweet Timandra; for his wits Are drown'd and lost in his calamities. I have but little gold of late, brave Timon, Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states, gone. Alcib. I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon. Tim. How dost thou pity him, whom thou dost trouble? I had rather be alone. Alcib. Why, fare thee well: Here's some gold for thee. Tim. Keep't, I cannot eat it. Alcib. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap,- Tim. Warr'st thou 'gainst Athens ? Alcib. Ay, Timon, and have cause. Tim. The gods confound them all i'thy conquest; and Thee after, when thou hast conquer'd! Alcib. Tim. That, Why me, Timon? By killing villains, thou wast born to conquer Put up thy gold; Go on,-here's gold,—go on; Will o'er some high-vic'd city hang his poison * Alluding to the cure of the lues venerea, then in practice. In the sick air: Let not thy sword skip one : Herself's a bawd: Let not the virgin's cheek Make soft thy trenchant* sword; for those milkpaps, That through the window-bars bore at men's eyes, Are not within the leaf of pity writ, Set them down horrible traitors: Spare not the babe, Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy; Think it a bastard†, whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut, Not all thy counsel. Tim. Dost thou or dost thou not, heaven's curse upon thee! Phr. & Timan. Give us some gold, good Timon: Hast thou more? Tim. Enough to make a whore forswear her trade, And to make whores, a bawd. Hold up, you sluts, : * Cutting. + An allusion to the tale of Edipus. i. e. Against objects of charity and compassion. Without pity. Il Vocations. |