It is her habit only that is honest, Herself's a bawd. Let not the virgin's cheek But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe, Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut, Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes, 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, Let your close fire predominate his smoke, And be no turncoats. Yet may your pains, six months, No matter: wear them, betray with them: whore still; 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, Nor sound his quillets shrilly: hoar the flamen, And not believes himself: down with the nose, Of him, that his particular to foresee, 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! 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. 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. Call'st thou that harm? Tim. Men daily find it. Get thee away, And take thy beagles with thee. Tim. That nature, being sick of man's unkindness, Should yet be hungry! - Common mother, thou, Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast, [Digging. Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle, Let it no more bring out ingrateful man! Go great with tigers, dragon's, wolves, and bears; Never presented! — O! a root, dear thanks! Enter APEMantus. More man? Plague! plague! Apem. I was directed hither: men report, Thou dost affect my manners, and dost 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 infected; A poor unmanly melancholy, sprung, From change of fortune. Why this spade? this place? And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus ; Thou gav'st thine ears, like tapsters that bade welcome, Apem. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself; And skip when thou point'st out? Will the cold brook, To cure thy o’er-night's surfeit? call the creatures, Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks, Answer mere nature, - bid them flatter thee; Tim, A fool of thee. Depart, Apem. I love thee better now than e'er I did. Apem. Tim. Why? Thou flatter'st misery. To vex thee. Apem. I flatter not, but say thou art a caitiff. Tim. Why dost thou seek me out? Арет. Tim. Always a villain's office, or a fool's. Dost please thyself in 't? Apem. Tim. Ay. What! a knave too? `Apem. If thou didst put this sour cold habit on The other, at high wish: best state, contentless, Thou should'st desire to die, being miserable. Tim. Not by his breath, that is more miserable. Hadst thou, like us, from our first swath, proceeded Freely command, thou would'st have plung'd thyself In different beds of lust; and never learn'd The icy precepts of respect, but follow'd Who had the world as my confectionary; The mouths, the tongues, the eyes, and hearts of men That numberless upon me stuck, as leaves Do on the oak, have with one winter's brush Fell from their boughs, and left me open, bare Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time Hath made thee hard in 't. Why should'st thou hate men? If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, |