Who feeks for better of thee, fauce his pa With thy most operant poison! What is Gold yellow, glittering, precious gold? I am no idle votarift. Roots, you clear h Thus much of this, will make black, whi Wrong, right; base, noble; old, young; Ha, you gods! why this? What this, you Will lug your priests and fervants from y Pluck ftout men's pillows from below the This yellow flave

Will knit and break religions; bless the Make the hoar leprofy ador'd; place thie And give them title, knee, and approbatic With fenators on the bench: this is it, That makes the wappen'd widow wed aga She, whom the spital-house, and ulcerous Would caft the gorge at, this embalms an To the April day again. Come, damned Thou common whore of mankind, that p Among the rout of nations, I will make t Do thy right nature.-[March afar off.] Thou'rt quick,

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

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

[Keeping fome gold.

Enter ALCIBIADES, with drum and fife, in warlike manner ; PHRYNIA, and TYMANDRA.

Alcib.

What art thou there?

Speak.

Tim. A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy heart, For fhowing 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 mifanthropos, and hate mankind.

For thy part, I do with thou wert a dog,

That I might love thee fomething.

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 defire 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 deftruction than thy fword,

For all her cherubin look.

Phry.

Thy lips rot off!

Tim. I will not kifs 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 funs to borrow of.

Alcib.

What friendship may I do thee?

Noble Timon,

Tim.

None, but to

Maintain my opinion.

Alcib.

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 doft perform, confound thee, For thou'rt a man!

Alcib. I have heard in fome fort of thy miseries. Tim. Thou faw'ft them, when I had prosperity. Alcib. I fee them now; then was a blessed time. Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. Tyman. Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world Voic'd fo regardfully?

Tim.

Tyman. Yes.

Art thou Tymandra ?

Tim. Be a whore ftill! they love thee not, that use thee; Give them diseases, leaving with thee their luft.

Make ufe of thy falt hours: feason the flaves

For tubs, and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth
To the tub-fast, and the diet.

Tyman.

Hang thee, monster ! Alcib. Pardon him, sweet Tymandra; 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 curfed Athens, mindiefs of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,
But for thy fword 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 doft thou pity him, whom thou dost trouble?
I had rather be alone.

Alcib.

Alcib.

Why, fare thee well:

Keep't, I cannot eat it.

Here's fome 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 conqueft; and Thee after, when thou haft conquer'd!

Alcib.

Tim. That,

Why me, Timon ?

By killing villains, thou waft 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 fome high-vic'd city hang his poifon

In the fick air: Let not thy fword skip one :
Pity not honour'd age for his white beard,
He's an ufurer: Strike me the counterfeit matron ;
It is her habit only that is honest,

Herself's a bawd: Let not the virgin's cheek
Make foft thy trenchant fword; 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,
Whofe dimpled fmiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut,
And mince it fans remorse: Swear against objects;
Put armour on thine ears, and on thine eyes;
Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,
Nor fight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot. There's gold to pay thy foldiers :
Make large confufion; and, thy fury spent,
Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.