Imatges de pàgina
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The Gods confound (hear me, you good Gods all)
Th' Athenians both within and out that wall;
And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow,
To the whole race of mankind, high and low!
SCENE II. Timon's Houfe.

Enter Flavius with two or three Servants.

[Exit.

1 Ser. Hear you, good mafter steward, where's our mafter Are we undone, caft off, nothing remaining?

Flav. Alack, my fellows, what fhould 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 Mafter 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 falfe vows with him
Like empty purses pick'd: and his poor felf,

A dedicated beggar to the air,

With his disease of all-fhunn'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,
Serving alike in forrow. Leak'd is our bark,
And we, poor mates, ftand on the dying deck,
Hearing the furges threat: we must all part
Into the fea of air.

Flav. Good fellows all,

The latest of my wealth I'll fhare amongst you.
Where-ever we fhall meet for Timon's fake,
Let's yet be fellows: fhake our heads, and say,
(As 'twere a knell unto our mafter's fortunes)
We have feen better days. Let each take some;
Nay, put out all your hands; not one word more,
Thus part we rich in forrow, parting poor.

[He gives them money, they embrace and part feveral ways.

Oh

1.

Oh the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us !
Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,
Since riches point to mifery and contempt?
Who'd 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 unusual blood,
When man's worft fin is, he does too much good.
Who then dares to be half fo kind again?

For bounty, that makes Gods, does ftill mar men.
My dearest Lord, bleft 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 monftrous 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 ferve his mind with my beft will;
Whilft I have gold, I'll be his fteward ftill.
SCENE III. The Woods.
Enter Timon.

[Exit.

Tim. O bleffed breeding Sun, draw from the earth
Rotten humidity: below thy fifter's orb

Infect the air. Twinn'd brothers of one womb,
Whofe procreation, refidence, and birth

Scarce is divided, touch with feveral fortunes,
The greater fcorns the leffer: Not ev'n nature,
To whom all fores lay fiege, can bear great fortune
But with contempt of nature.

Raife me this beggar, and degrade that Lord,
The fenator fhall bear contempt hereditary,

The beggar native honour :

It is the pafture lards the weather's fides,

The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares,

In purity of manhood stand upright,

And fay, This man's a flatterer ? if one be,
So are they all, for every greeze of fortune
Is fmooth'd by that below. The learned pate

Ducks

Ducks to the golden fool: All is oblique,
There's nothing level in our curfed natures
But direct villainy. Then be abhorr'd,
All feafts, focieties, 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 palate
With thy moft operant poifon! What is here?
Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, Gods!
I am no idle votarift. Roots, clear heav'ns!

Thus much of this will make black, white; foul, fair;
Wrong, right; bafe, noble; old, young; coward, valiant.
You Gods! why this? why this? you Gods!why, this
Will lug your priefts and fervants from your fides:
Pluck fick mens pillows from below their heads.
This yellow flave

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 fenators on the bench: this, this is it
That makes the waped widow wed again;
Her, whom the spittle-house and ulcerous fores
Would caft the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To th' April day again. Come, damned earth,
Thou common whore of mankind, that putt'ft odds
Among the rout of nations, I will make thee

Do thy right nature — [March afar off. ] Ha! a drum ?— thou'rt quick,

But yet I'll bury thee

thou'lt go (ftrong thief)

When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand.

Nay, ftay 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 ? fpeak.

Tim. A beaft, as thou art. Cankers 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 with thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.

Alc. I know thee well:

But in thy fortunes am unlearn'd and ftrange,

Tim. I know thee too, and more than as I know thee I not defire to know. Follow thy drum,

And with man's blood paint all the ground gules, gules;
Religious canons, civil laws are cruel,

Then what fhould 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 kiss thee, then the rot returns
To thine own lips again.

Ak. 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,

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

Alc. What is it, Timon?

Tim. Promife 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 art a man !

Ale, I've heard in fome fort of thy miferies.
Tim. Thou faw'ft them when I had prosperity.
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 use thee; Give them difeafes, leaving with thee their luft:

Make use of thy falt hours, feason the flaves

For tubs and baths, bring down the rofe-cheek'd youth
To th' tub-faft, and the diet.

Timan. Hang thee, monfter!

Alc.

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. have heard and griev'd,
How curfed Athens is mindlefs of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour ftates
But for thy fword 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?
I'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 Athens on a heap

Tim. Warr'ft thou 'gainst Athens ?

Alc. Ay, Timon, and have caufe,

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 waft born to make conqueft of 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 is an ufurer, Strike me the matron,
It is her habit only that is honeft,

Her felf's a bawd. Let not the virgin's cheek
Make foft thy trenchant fword; for thofe 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
Whofe dimpled fmiles from fools extort their mercy;
Think it a baftard, who, the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounc'd, thy throat fhall cut,
And mince it fans remorfe. Swear 'gainst all objects,
Put armour on thine ears, and on thine eyes;

Whofe

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