To have his pomp, and all what state compounds,
But only painted, like his varnish'd friends?
Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart;
Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood,
When man's worst sin is, he does too much good!
Who then dares to be half so kind again?
For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men.
My dearest lord,-bless'd, to be most accurs'd,
Rich, only to be wretched;-thy great fortunes
Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord!
He's flung in rage from this ungrateful seat
Of monstrous friends: nor has he with him to
Supply his life, or that which can command it.
I'll follow, and inquire him out:

I'll serve his mind with my best will;

Whilst I have gold, I'll be his steward still. [Exit. SCENE III.-The woods. Enter Timon.

Tim. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orb2

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,
But by3 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,

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,
So are they all; for every grize of fortune

(1) Propensity, disposition.

(2) i. e. The moon's, this sublunary world.
(3) But by is here used for without.

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 villany. Therefore, be abhorr'd
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!
His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:
Destruction fang1 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 votarist.2 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'd3 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.4 Come, damned earth,
Thou common whore of mankind, that put'st odds
Among the rout of nations, I will make thee
Do thy right nature. [March afar off]-Ha! a
drum?-Thou'rt quick,

But yet I'll bury thee: Thou'lt go, strong thief,

(1) Seize, gripe.

(2) No insincere or inconstant supplicant. Gold will not serve me instead of roots.

(3) Sorrowful.

(4) i. e. Gold restores her to all the sweetness and freshness of youth.

When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand :-
Nay, stay thou out for earnest.

[Keeping some gold.

Enter Alcibiades, with drum and fife, in warlike manner; Phrynia and Timandra.

For showing me again the eyes of man!

Alcib. What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee,

That art thyself a man?

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,

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 thine
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 own 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.

Noble Timon;

None, but to

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. 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.1

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
In my penurious band: I have heard, and griev'd,
How cursed 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

gone..

Alcib. am thy friend, and pity thee, dear

Timon.

Tim. How dost thou pity him, whom thou dost

trouble?

I had rather be alone.

(1) Alluding to the cure of the lues venerea, then in practice.

Alcib.

Why, fare thee well:

Keep't, I cannot eat it.

Here's some gold for thee.

Tim.

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
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 honour'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 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,2 whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse:3 Swear against objects;4

Put armour on thine ears, and on thine eyes;

(1) Cutting.

(2) An allusion to the tale of Edipus.

(3) Without pity.

(4) i. e. Against objects of charity and compas

sion.