Imatges de pÓgina

The Gods confound (hear me, you good Gods all)
Th’Arbeniaxs both within and out that wall z
And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow,
To the whole race of mankind, high and low ! [Exit.

SCENE II. Timon's House.

Enter Flavius with two or three Servants, 1 Ser. Hear you, good master steward, where's our mafter Are we undone, cast off, nothing remaining ?

Flav. Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you ?
Let it be recorded by the righteous Gods,
I am as poor as you.'

1 Ser. Such a house broke!
So noble a Master fall’n ! all gone! and not
One friend to take his fortune by the arm,
And go along with him !

2 Ser. As we turn our backs
From our companion thrown into his grave,
So his familiars from his buried fortunes
Slink all away, leave their falle vows with him
Like empty purses pick'd: and his poor self,
A dedicated beggar to the air,
With his disease of all-funn'd poverty,
Walks, like Contempt, alone. More of our fellows..

Enter orber Servants.
Flav. All broken implements of a ruin'd house!
3 Ser. Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery,
That see I by our faces ; we are fellows,
Serving alike in sorrow. Leak'd is our bark,
And we, poor mates, Itand on the dying deck,
Hearing the surges threat : we must all part
Into the sea of air,

Flav. Good fellows all,
The latest of my wealth I'll share amongst you.
Where-ever we shall mect for Timon's sake,
Let's yet be fellows : shake our heads, and say,
(As 'twere a knell unto our master's fortunes)
We have seen better days. Let cach take some ;
Nay, put out all your hands ; not one word more,
Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.
(He gives ibem murey, ibey embrace and part several ways.


Oh the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us !
Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,
Since riches point to misery and contempt?
Who'd be so mock'd with glory, as to live
But in a dream of friendfhip?
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 : strange unusual blood,
When man's worst fin is, he does too much good.
Who then dares to be half so kind again ?
For bounty, that makes Gods, does still mar men.
My deareft Lord, blest to be most accurs'd,
Rich only to be wretched ; thy great fortunes
Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind Lord !
He's flung in rage from this ungrateful feat
Of monstrous friends ; nor has he with him to
Supply his life, or that which can command it:
I'll follow after and enquire him out.
I'll ever serve his mind with my best will;
Whilft I have gold, I'll be his fteward ftill. [Exit.

SCENE III. The Woods,

Enter Timon. Tim. O blessed breeding Sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity : below thy Gifter's orb Infect the air. Twinn'd brothers of one womb, Whose procreation, residence, and birth Scarce is divided, touch with several fortunes, The greater scorns the lesser : Not ey'n nature, To whom all fores lay liege, can bear great fortune But with contempt of nature. Raise me this beggar, and degrade that Lord, The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, The beggar native honour : It is the pasture lards the weather's fides, The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares, In purity of manhood stand upright, And say, This man's a flatterer if one be, So are they all, for every greeze of fortune Is Smooth'd by that below. The learned pate


Ducks to the golden fool : All is oblique,
There's nothing level in our cursed natures
But direct villainy. Then be abhorr’d,
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men !
His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains,
Destruction phang mankind ! Earth, yield me roots !

[Digging the earlb.
Who seeks for better of thee, fawce his palate
With thy most operant poison ! - What is here?
Gold ? yellow, glittering, precious gold ? No, Gods !
I am no idle votarist. Roots, clear heav’ns !
Thus much of this will make black, white; foul, fair ;
Wrong, right; base, noble ; old, young ; coward, valiante
You Gods) why this ?-- why this you Gods !-why, this
Will lug your priests and servants from your sides :
Pluck fick mens pillows from below their heads,
This yellow Nave
Will knit and break religions ; bless th' accursid ;
Make the hoar leprofie ador’d; place thieves,
And give them title, knee, and approbation
With fenators on the bench: this, this is it
That makes the waped widow wed again ;
Her, whom the spittle-house and ulcerous fores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To th’April day again. Come, damned earth,
Thou common whore of mankind, that puti't odds
Among the rout of nations, I will make thee
Do thy right nature [March afar off.] Ha! a drumm

thou'rt quick, But yet I'll bury thee thou'lt go (ftrong thief) When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand. Nay, stay thou out for earnest. [Keeping fome gold.

SCENE IV. Enter Alcibiades with drum and fife, in warlike manner,

and Phrynia and Timandra, Alc. What art thou there? speak.

Tim. A beast, as thou art. Cankers gnaw thy heart For Thewing me again the eyes of man

Alc. What is thy name is man so hateful to thực, That art thy self a man?

Tim. I am Mifantbrapos, and hate mankind,
For thy part, I do with thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.

Alc, I know thee well :
But in thy fortunes am unlearn'd and Atrange,

Tim. I know thee too, and more than as I know thee
I not desire to know. Follow thy drum,
And with man’s blood paint all the ground gules, gules ;
Religious canons, civil laws are cruel,
Then what should war be? this fell whore of thiné
Hath in her more destruction than thy sword,
For all her cherubin look.

Pbry. Thy lips rot off!

Tim. I will not kiss thee, then the rot returns To thine own lips again.

Akc. 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've heard in some sort of thy miseries.
Tim. Thon faw'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 Abenian minjon, whom the world Voic'd lo regardfully ?

Tim. Are thou Timandra ?
Timan. Yes,

Tim. Be a whore ftill: they love thee not that use thees
Give them difeases, leaving with thee their luft :
Make use of thy falt hours, season the Naves
For tubs and baths, bring down the rose-cheek'd youth
To th' tub-fast, and the diet.

Timan. Hang thee, monster!

Alc. Pardon him, sweet Timandra, for his wics
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. have heard and griev'd,
How cursed Athens is mindless of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states
But for thy sword and fortune had trod on them.

Tim. I pr’ythee 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 ? l'ad rather be alone.

Alc. Why, fare thee well,
Here's gold for thee.

Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it.
Alc. When I have laid proud Arbens on a beap.
Tim. Warr’ft thou 'gainst Atbens ?
Alc. Ay, Timon, and have cause.

Tim. The Gods confound them all then in thy conqueft, And after, Thee, when thou haft conquered !

Alc. But why me, Timon ?

Tim. That by killing villains
Thou wast born to make conquest of my country.
Put up thy gold. Go on, here's gold, go on ;
Be as a planetary plague, when yove
Will o'er fome 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 is an usurer, Strike me the matron,
It is her habit only that is honeft,
Her self 's a bawd. Let not the virgin's cheek
Make soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk-paps
That through the window-lawn bore at mens eyes,
Are not within the leaf of pity writ,
Set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe
Whose dimpled smiles frçın fools extort their mercy ;
Think it a baftard, who, the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounc'd, thy throat shall cut,
And mince it (ans remorse. Swear 'gainst all objects,
Put armour on chine ears, and on thine eyes ;


« AnteriorContinua »