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Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood,
Enter Timon. Tim. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orbt, Infect the air! Twion'd brothers of one womb, - . Whose procreation, residence, and birth, Scarce is dividant,-touch them with several for
tunes; The greater scorns the lesser: Not vature, To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune, But byt contempt of nature. Raise me this beggar, and denude that lord;. The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, The beggar native honour, It is the pasture lards the brother's sides,
• Propensity, disposition.
The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who
dares, Id purity of manhood stand upright, And say, This man's a flatterer ? if one be, So are they all; for every grize of fortune Is smooth'd by that below: the learned pate Ducks to the golden fool: All is oblique ; There's nothing level in our cursed natures, But direct villainy. Therefore, be abhorr'd All feasts, societies, and throngs of men ! His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains : Destruction fang* mankind !- Earth, yield me roots!
[Digging. Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate With thy most operant poison! What is here? Gold ? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods, I am no idle votaristt. 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 ? What this, you gods!
Why this. Will lug your priests and servants from your sides; Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads : This yellow slave Will knit and break religions ; bless the accurs'd; Make the hoar leprosy ador'd ; place thieves, And give them title, knee, and approbation, With senators on the bench: this is it. That makes the wappen'd I widow.wed again; She, whom the spital-house, and ulcerous sores Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices To the April day again g. Come, damned earth,
• Seize, gripe.
+ 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.
Enter Alcibiades, with drum and fife, in warlike
manner; Phrynia and T'imandra.
What art thou there? Speak. "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
Tim. I am misanthropos, and hate mankind.
I know thee well :
know thee, I not desire to know. Follow thy drum; With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules: Religious canons, civil laws are cruel; Then what should war be? This fell whore of thino Hath in her more destruction than thy sword, . For all her cherubin look.. Phr.
Thy lips rot off ! Tim. I will not kiss thee; then the rot returns To thine owo lips again. 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 suns to borrow of..
None, but to
What is it, Timon ?
Alcib. I have heard in some sort of thy miseries.
Art thou Timandra?
use thee; Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. Make use of thy salt hours: season the slaves For tubs, and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth To the tub-fast, and the diet*. 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, The want whereof doth daily make revolt I my penurious band : I have heard, and griey'd, How corsed Athens, mindless of thy worth, Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states, But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them, Tim. I pr’ythee, beat thy drum, and get thee
* Alluding to the cure of the lues venerea, then in practice.
Alcib. I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Ti.
mon. 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.
Ay, Timod, and have cause.
and Thee after, when thou hast conquer'd!. Alcib,
Why me, Timon ? Tim. That, By killing villains, thou wast born to conquer My country. Put up thy gold; Go on, here's gold,-go on; Be as a planetary plague, when Jove Will o'er some high-vic'd city hang his poison In the sick air: Let not thy sword skip one: Pity not lionour'd age for his white beard, He's an usurer: Strike me the counterfeit matron; It is her habit only that is honest, Herself's a bawd: Let not the virgin's cheek Make soft thy trenchant* sword; for those milk.
paps, . 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 bastardt, whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut,