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.

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. Yes.

Art thou Timandra?

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.

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,

3

If

Thou wilt not promise, &c.] That is, however thou may'st act, since thou art a man, hated man, I wish thee evil.

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?

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 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;

G 2

Think it a bastard, whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse: Swear against objects;5 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!

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, Your aprons mountant: You are not oathable,— Although, I know, you'll swear, terribly swear, Into strong shudders, and to heavenly agues, The immortal gods that hear you,-spare your oaths, I'll trust to your conditions: Be whores still; And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up; Let your close fire predominate his smoke, And be no turncoats: Yet may your pains, six months,

Be quite contrary: And thatch your poor thin roofs With burdens of the dead;-some that were hang'd, No matter:-wear them, betray with them: whore still;

bastard,] An allusion to the tale of Oedipus.

5 Swear against objects;] Against objects is, against objects of charity and compassion.

I'll trust to your conditions:] I will trust to your inclinations, or rather vocations.

Paint till a horse

may mire upon your face:

A pox of wrinkles!

Phr. & Timan. Well, more gold;-What then?Believ't, that we'll do any thing for gold.

Tim. Consumptions sow

In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins,
And mar men's spurring. Crack the lawyer's voice,
That he may never more false title plead,

Nor sound his quillets shrilly: hoar the flamen,
That scolds against the quality of flesh,
And not believes himself: down with the nose,
Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away
Of him, that his particular to foresee,"

8

Smells from the general weal; make curl'd-pate ruffians bald;

And let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war

Derive some pain from you: Plague all;

That your activity may defeat and quell

The source of all erection. There's more gold:Do you damn others, and let this damn you,

And ditches grave you all!1

Phr. & Timan. More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon.

Tim. More whore, more mischief first; I have
given you earnest,

Alcib. Strike up the drum towards Athens,
Farewell, Timon;

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

7 Nor sound his quillets shrilly:] Quillets are subtilties.

8 hoar the flamen,] This may mean,-Give the flamen the hoary leprosy.

9 that his particular to foresee,] The metaphor is apparently incongruous, but the sense is good. To foresee his particular, is to provide for his private advantage, for which he leaves the right scent of publick good.

1 And ditches grave you all!] To grave is to entomb. The word is now obsolete, though sometimes used by Shakspeare and his contemporary authors.

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.

Alcib.

Call'st thou that harm? Tim. Men daily find it such. Get thee away, And take thy beagles with thee.

Alcib. Strike.

We but offend him.

[Drum beats. Exeunt ALCIBIADES, PHRYNIA, and TIMANDRA.

Tim. That nature, being sick of man's unkindness,
Should yet be hungry!-Common mother, thou,
[Digging.
Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,2
Teems, and feeds all; whose 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,3
With all the abhorred births below crisp1 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!
Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb,
Let it no more bring out ingrateful 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;5

3

2 Whose-infinite breast] means whose boundless surface. eyeless venom'd worm,] The serpent, which we, from the smallness of his eyes, call the blind-worm, and the Latins, cœcilia. 4 below crisp heaven-] i. e. curled, bent, hollow.

5

Dry up thy marrows, rines, and plow-torn leas;] The sense is this: O nature! cease to produce men, ensear thy womb; but if thou wilt continue to produce them, at least cease to pamper them; dry up thy marrows, on which they fatten with unctuous morsels, thy vines, which give them liquorish draughts, and thy plow-torn leas.