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.

I know thee well;

Alcib.
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:
Religious canons, civil laws are cruel;

Then what should war be?

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.

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. 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. 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:

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:

Let not the virgin's cheek

Make soft thy trenchant 3 sword; spare not the

babe,

Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;

Think it a bastard4, whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse: Swear against objects ;6

3 Cutting.

5 Without pity.

4 An allusion to the tale of Oedipus.

i.e. Against objects of charity and compassion.

VOL. VIII.

G

Put armour on thine ears, and on thine eyes; Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,

Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding, Shall pierce a jot. There's gold to pay thy soldiers:

Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent,
Confounded be thyself! speak not, be gone.

Alcib. Hast thou gold yet? I'll take the gold thou giv'st me,

Not all thy counsel.

Tim. Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven's curse upon thee!

Alcib. Strike up the drum towards Athens. Farewell Timon!

If I thrive well, I'll visit thee again.

Tim. If I hope well, I'll never see thee more.
Alcib. I never did thee harm.

Tim. Yes, thou spok'st well of me.

Call'st thou that harm?

Alcib.
Tim. Men daily find it such. Get thee away.

Alcib. Strike.

We but offend him.. [Drum beats. Exit ALCIBIAdes. Tim. That nature, being sick of man's unkind

ness,

Should yet be hungry!-Common mother, thou
[Digging.
Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,
Teems, and feeds all; whole self-same mettle,
Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff'd,
Engenders the black toad, and adder blue,
The gilded newt, and eyeless venom'd worm,7
With all the abhorred births below crisps heaven
Whereon Hyperion's quickening fire doth shine;
Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,
From forth thy plenteous bosom one poor root!

7 The serpent called the blind-worm.

8 Curved.

Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb,
Let it no more bring out ungrateful man!
Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears;
Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face
Hath to the marbled mansion all above

Never presented !-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!

Enter APEMANTUS.

More man? Plague! plague!

Apem. I was directed hither: Men report, Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them. Tim. 'Tis then, because thou dost not keep a dog Whom I would imitate: consumption catch thee! Apem. This is in thee a nature but affected; A poor unmanly melancholy, sprung

From change of fortune. Why this spade? this place?

This slave-like habit? and these looks of care?
Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft,
Hug their diseas'd perfumes, and have forgot
That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods,
By putting on the cunning of a carper.
Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive
By that which has undone thee: hinge thy knee,
And let his very breath, whom thou'lt observe,
Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain,
And call it excellent; thou wast told thus ;

Thou gav'st thine ears, like tapsters, that bid wel

come,

To knaves, and all approachers: 'Tis most just, That thou turn rascal'; had'st thou wealth again, Rascals should have't. Do not assume my likeness. Tim. Were I like thee, I'd throw away myself.

Apem. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like

thyself;

A madman so long, now a fool: What, think'st That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, Will put thy shirt on warm? Will these moss'd

trees,

That have outliv'd the eagle, page thy heels, And skip when thou point'st out? Will the cold brook,

Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,

To cure thy o'er-night surfeit? call the crea

tures,

Whose naked natures live in all the spite

Of wreakful heaven; whose bare unhoused trunks, To the conflicting elements expos'd,

Answer mere nature,- bid them flatter thee;

O! thou shalt find

Tim.

A fool of thee: Depart.

Apem. I love thee better now than e'er I did.
Tim. I hate thee worse.

Apem.

Tim.

Why?

Thou flatter'st misery.

Apem. I flatter not; but say, thou art a caitiff. Tim. Why dost thou seek me out?

Apem.

To vex thee.

Tim. Always a villain's office, or a fool's. Dost please thyself in't?

Apem.

Tim.

Ay.

What! a knave too?

Apem. If thou didst put this sour cold habit on To castigate thy pride, 'twere well: but thou Dost it enforcedly; thou'dst courtier be again, Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery Outlives incertain pomp, is crown'd before:9 The one is filling still, never complete ; The other at high wish: Best state, contentless,

9 i. e. Arrives sooner at the completion of its wishes.