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One Friend to take his Fortune by the Arm,
And go along with him.

2 Ser. As we do turn our Backs

From our Companion, thrown into his Grave,
So his Familiars to his buried Fortunes

Slink all away, leave their falfe Vows with him
Like empty Purses pick'd. And his poor felf
A dedicated Beggar to the Air,

With his Difeafe, of all fhun'd Poverty,

Walks like Contempt alone. More of our Fellows.
Enter other Servants.

Flav. All broken Implements of a ruin'd House.
3 Ser. Yet do our Hearts wear Timon's Livery,
That fee I by our Faces; we are Fellows ftill,
Serving alike in Sorrow; Leak'd is our Bark,
And we, poor Mates, ftand on the dying Deck,
Hearing the Surges threat: we must all part
Into this Sea of Air.

Flav. Good Fellows all,

The latest of my Wealth I'll share amongst you.
Where-ever we fhall meet, for Timon's fake,
Let's yet be Fellows. Let's fhake our heads, and fay,
As 'twere a Knell unto our Mafter's Fortunes,
We have seen better Days. Let each take fome;
Nay put out all your Hands; not one word more,
Thus part we rich in Sorrow, parting poor.

[He gives them Mony, they Embrace, and part feveral ways.
Oh the fierce Wretchednefs that Glory brings us!
Who would not wish to be from Wealth exempt,
Since Riches point to Mifery and Contempt ?
Who would be fo mock'd with Glory, as to live
But in a Dream of Friendship?

To have his Pomp, and all what State compounds,
But only painted like his varnish'd Friends:
Poor honeft Lord! brought low by his own Heart,
Undone by goodness: ftrange unufual Blood,
When Man's worft Sin is, he does too much good.
Who then dares to be half fo kind again?
For Bounty that makes Gods, does still mar Men.
My deareft Lord, bleft to be most accurs'd,
Rich only to be wretched; thy great Fortunes

Are

Are made thy chief Afflictions. Alas, kind Lord!
He's flung in a Rage from this ungrateful Seat
Of monftrous Friends:

Nor has he to fupply his Life,
Or that which can command it:
I'll follow and enquire him out.

I'll ever ferve his Mind, with my beft will,
Whilft I have Gold, I'll be his Steward ftill.

SCENE III. The Woods.

Enter Timon.

Tim. O bleffed breeding Sun, draw from the Earth
Rotten Humidity: Below thy Sifter's Orb
Infect the Air. Twin'd Brothers of one Womb,
Whofe Procreation, Refidence, and Birth,
Scarce is dividant, touch them with feveral Fortunes,
The greater fcorns the leffer. Not Nature,

To whom all Sores lay Siege, can bear great Fortune
But by contempt of Nature.

Raife me this Beggar, and deny't that Lord,
The Senator fhall bear Contempt Hereditary,
The Beggar native Honour.

It is the Pafture lards the Beggar's fides,

[Exit.

The want that makes him lean. Who dares? who dares,
In purity of Manhood, ftand upright,
And fay, this Man's a Flatterer? If one be,
So are they all, for every grize of Fortune
Is fmooth'd by that below. The learned Pate
Ducks to the Golden Fool. All's Obloquy :
There's nothing level in our curfed Natures
But direct Villany. Therefore be abhorr❜d,
All Feafts, Societies, and Throngs of Men.
His femblable, yea himself Timon difdains,
Destruction phang Mankind, Earth yield me Roots,
[Digging the Earth.
Who feeks for better of thee, fawce his Pallate
With thy moft operant Poifon. What is here?
Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious Gold?
N Gods, I am no idle Votarist,

Roots you clear Heavens. Thus much of this will make

Black

Black, White; Fowl, Fair; Wrong, Right;
Bafe, Noble; Old, Young; Coward, Valiant.

Ha, you Gods! why this? what this, you Gods? why, this
Will lug your Priefts and Servants from your fides:
Pluck ftout Mens Pillows from below their Heads.

This yellow Slave

Will knit and break Religions, blefs th'accurs'd,
Make the hoar Leprofie ador'd, place Thieves,
And give them title, knee, and approbation
With Senators on the Bench: This is it
That makes the wappen'd Widow wed again;
She, whom the Spittle-Houfe, and ulcerous Sores,
Would caft the gorge at; this embalms and spices
To th' April day again. Come, damn'd Earth,
Thou common Whore of Mankind, that putteft odds
Among the rout of Nations, I will make thee
Do thy right Nature.

Ha! a Drum? Th'art quick,

But yet I'll bury thee

[March afar off.

Thou'lt go (ftrong Thief)

When gouty Keepers of thee cannot ftand:

Nay, ftay thou out for earneft.

Enter Alcibiades with Drum and Fife in warlike manner,

and Phrinia and Timandra.

Alc. What art thou there? fpeak.

Tim. A Beaft, as thou art. The Canker gnaw thy Heart For fhewing me again the Eyes of Man.

Alc. What is thy Name ? is Man fo hateful to thee,

That art thy felf a Man?

Tim. I am Mifanthropos, and hate Mankind.

For thy part, I do wish thou wert a Dog,

That I might love thee fomething.

Alc. I know thee well:

But in thy Fortunes am unlearn'd and ftrange.

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, Güles:

Religious Cannons, civil Laws are cruel,

Then what should War be? This fell Whore of thine,
Hath in her more deftruction than thy Sword,
For all her Cherubin look.

Phri. Thy Lips rot off.

VOL. V.

K

Tim.

Tim. I will not kifs thee, then the Rot returns
To thine own Lips again.

Alc. 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.

Alc. Noble Timon, what Friendship may I do thee?
Tim. None, but to maintain my Opinion.

Alc. What is it, Timon?

Tim. Promise me Friendship, but perform none.

If thou wilt not promife, the Gods plague thee, for thou art a Man if thou doft perform, confound thee, for thou Man.

art

Alc. I have heard in fome fort of thy Miferies. Tim. Thou faw'ft them when I had Profperity. Alc. I fee them now, then was a bleffed time.: Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of Harlots. Timan. Is this th' Athenian Minion, whom the World Voic'd fo regardfully?

Tim. Art thou Timandra?

Timan. Yes.

Tim. Be a Whore ftill, they love thee not that ufe thee, give them Diseases, leaving with thee their Luft. Make ufe of thy falt Hours, feafon the Slaves for Tubs and Baths, bring down Rofe-cheek'd Youth to the Fubfaft, and the Diet.

Timan. Hang thee, Monster.

Alc. Pardon him, fweet Timandra, for his Wits
Are drown'd and loft in his Calamities.

I have but little Gold of late, brave Timon,
The want whereof, doth daily make revolt
In my penurious Band. I heard and griev'd,
How curfed Athens, mindlefs of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great Deeds, when neighbour States,
But for thy Sword and Fortune, trod upon them---
Tim. I prithee beat thy Drum, and get thee gone.
Alc. I am thy Friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.
Tim. How doft thou pity him, whom thou doft trouble?
I had rather be alone.

Alc. Why fare thee well: Here is fome Gold for thee.

Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it.

Alc. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap.
Tim. War'ft thou 'gainst Athens?

Alc. Ay, Timon, and have cause.

Tim. The Gods confound them all in thy Conqueft,
And thee after, when thou haft conquer'd.
Alc. Why me, Timon?

Tim. That by killing of Villains

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Thou waft born to conquer my Country.
Put up thy Gold. Go on, here's Gold, go on;
Be as a planetary Plague, whome Jove

Will, o'er fome high-vic'd City, hang his poifon
In the fick Air: let not thy Sword skip one.
Pity not honour'd Age for his white Beard,
He is an Ufurer. Strike me the counterfeit Matron,
It is her Habit only, that is honeft,

Her felf's a Bawd. Let not the Virgin's Cheek
Make foft thy trenchant Sword; for those Milk-Paps
That through the window Barn bore at Mens Eyes,
Are not within the Leaf of Pity writ,

But fet them down horrible Traitors. Spare not the Babe
Whofe dimpled fmiles from Fools exhauft their Mercy;
Think it a Baftard, whom the Oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounced, the Throat fhall cut,
And mince it fans remorfe. Swear against Objects,
Put Armour on thine Ears, and on thine Eyes,
Whofe proof, nor yells of Mothers, Maids, nor Babes,
Nor fight of Priefts in holy Veftments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot. There's Gold to pay thy Soldiers.
Make large Confufion; and thy fury spent,
Confounded be thy felf. Speak not, be gone.

Alc. Haft thou Gold yet? I'll take the Gold thou givest me, not all thy Counfel.

Tim. Doft thou, or doft thou not, Heav'ns Curfe upon thee.

Both. Give us fome Gold, good Timon, haft thou more? Tim. Enough to make a Whore forfwear her Trade, And to make Whores, a Bawd. Hold up, you Sluts, Your Aprons mountant, you are not Othable, Although I know you'll fwear, terribly fwear, Into ftrong fhudders, and to heavenly Agues

K 2

Th'im

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