« AnteriorContinua »
Tim. I will not kiss 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 promise, the Gods plague thee, for thou art a Man : if thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a Man.
Alc. I have heard in some sort of thy Miseries.
Tim. Thou saw'st them when I had Prosperity.
Alc. I see them now, then was a blessed time.
Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of Harlots.
Timan. Is this th’ Athenian Minion, whom the World Voic'd so regardfully?
Tim. 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 falt Hours, season the Slaves for Tubs and Baths, bring down Rose-cheek'd Youth to the Fubfast, and the Diet.
Timan. Hang thee, Monster.
Alc. 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 heard and griev'd,
How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great Deeds, when neighbour States,
But for thy Śword and Fortune, trod upon them ---
Tim. I prithee beat thy Drum, and thee
Alc. I am thy Friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.
Tim. How dost thou pity him, whom thou dost trouble ?
I had rather be alone.
Alc. Why fare thee well: Here is some Gold for thee.
Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it.
Alc. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap.
Tim. War'st thou 'gainst Athens ?
Alc. Ay, Timon, and have cause.
Tim. The Gods confound them all in thy Conquest,
And thee after, when thou hast conquer'd.
Alc. Why me, Timon ?
Tim. That by killing of Villains Thou wast 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 poison In the fick Air: let not thy Sword skip one. Pity not honour'd Age for his white Beard, He is an Usurer. Strike me the counterfeit Matron, It is her Habit only, that is honest, Her self's a Bawd. Let not the Virgin's Cheek Make soft thy trenchant Sword; for those Milk-Paps That through the window Barn bore at Mens Eyes, Are not within the Leaf of Picy writ, But set them down horrible Traitors. Spare not the Babe Whose dimpled (miles from Fools exhaust their Mercy; Think it a Bastard, whom the Oracle Hath doubtfully pronounced, the 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 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. Hast thou Gold yet? I'll take the Gold thou givest me, not all thy Counsel.
Tim. Dost thou, or dost thou not, Heav'ns Curse upon thee.
Both. Give us some Gold, good Timon, hast thou more?
Tim. Enough to make a Whore forswear her Trade,
And to make Whores, a Bowd. Hold up, you Sluts,
Your Aprons mountant, you are not Othable,
Although I know you'll swear, terribly swear,
Into strong shudders, and to heavenly Agues
Th’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 Smoak,
And be no Turn-coats: yet may your pains fix Months
Be quite contrary. And thatch
Your poor thin Roofs, with burthens of the Dead,
(Some that were hang'd) no matter :
Wear them, betray with them; whore still.
Paint 'till a Horse'may mire upon your Face;
A Pox of Wrinkles.
Both. Well, more Gold what then?
Believe that we'll do any thing for Gold.
Tim. Consumptions fow
In hollow Bones of Man, strike their sharp Shins,
And mar Mens spurring. Crack the Lawyer's Voice,
That he may never more false Title plead,
Nor found 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
Smells from the general Weal. Make curld Pate Ruffians
And let the unscarrid Braggarts of the War
Derive some pain from you. Plague all,
That your adivity may defeat, and quell
The source of all Eredion. There's more Gold.
And Ditches grave you all.
Do you Damn others, and let this Damn you,
Both. More counsel with more Mony, bounteous Timon.
Tim. More Whore, more Mischief first; I have given
Alc. Strike up the Drum towards Athens; farewel Timon : if I thrive well, I'll visit thee again.
Tim. If I hope well, I'll never see thee more.
Alc. I never did thee barm.
Tim. Yes, thou spok'st well of me.
Alc. Call'st thou that harm?
Tim. Men daily find it. Get thee away,
And take thy Beagles with thee.
Alc. We but offend him, strike.
Tim. That Nature being fick of Man's Unkindness
Should yet be hungry : Common Mother, thou
Whose Womb unmeasurable, and infinite Breast
Teems and feeds all; whose self same mettle
Whereof thy proud Child, arrogant Man, is puft,
Engenders the black Toad, and Adder blew,
The gilded Newt, and Eyeless venom'd Worm,
With all the abhorred Births below crisp Heaven,
Whereon Hyperions quickning Fire doth shine;
Yield him, who all the Human Sons do's hate,
From forth thy plenteous Bosom, one poor Root.
Enfear thy Fertile, and Conceptious Womb,
Let it no more bring out ingrateful Man.
great with Tygers, 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, Veins, and Plough-torn Leas,
Whereof ingrateful Man with Liquorith
And Morsels undious, greases his pure Mind,
That from it all Considerations flips
Enter Apemantus. More Man? Plagnie, Plague.
Apem. I was directed hither. Men report, Thou dost affe& my Manners, and doft 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 affe&ed,
A poor unmanly Melancholy sprung
From changeof Fortune. Why this Spade? this place?
This Slave-like Habit, and these looks of Care ?
Thy Flatterers yet wear Silk, drink Wine, lye soft,
Hug their diseased 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 welcome,
To Knaves, and all Approachers : 'Tis most just
That thou turn Rascal, hadst thou Wealth again,
Rascals should hav't. Do not assume my Likeness.
Tim. Were I like thee, I'd throw away my self.
Apem. Thou hast cast away thy self, being like thy self
A Mad-man so long, now a Fool : What think'st
That the bleak Air, thy boisterous Chamberlain,
Will put thy Shirt on warm? Will these moist Trees,
That have out-liv'd the Eagle, page thy Heels,
And Skip when thou point'it out? Will the cold Brook
Candied with Ice, cawdle thy morning taste
To cure thy o'er-night's Surfeit? Call the Creatures,
Whose naked Natures live in all the spight
Of wreekful Heaven, whose bare unhoused Trunks,
To the conflicting Elements expos’d,
Answer meer Nature ; bid them flitter thee;
Oh! 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.
Tim. Thou flatter't Misery.
Apem. I flatter not, but fay thou art a Caytiff.
Tim. Why dost thou seek me out ?
Apem. To vex, thee.
Tim. Always a Villain's Office, or a Fool's.
Dost please thy self in't?
Tim. What! a Knave too?
Apem. If thou didst put this fowrc 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
Out-lives incertain Pomp; is crown'd before:
The one is filling still, never Compleat;
The other, at high wish, best state Contentless,
Hath a distracted and most wretched Being,
Worse than the worst, Content.
Thou shouldst desire to die, being miferable,