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And by the hazard of the spotted die,
Let die the spotted.
1 Sen.

All have not offended;
For those that were, it is not square, to take,
On those that are, revenges : crimes, like lands,
Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman,
Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage :
Spare thy Athenian cradle, and those kin,
Which, in the bluster of thy wrath, must fall
With those that have offended: like a shepherd,
Approach the fold, and call the infected forth,
Bot kill not altogether
2 Sen.

What thou wilt,
Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile,
Than hew to’t with thy sword.
1 Sen.

Set but thy foot
Against our rampir'd gates, and they shall ope;
So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before,
To say, thou'lt enter friendly.
2 Sen.

Throw thy glove;
Or any token of thine honour else,
That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress,
And not as our confusion; all thy powers
Shall make their barbour in our town, till we
Have seal'd thy full desire,

Then there's my glove;
Descend, and open your uncharged ports;
Those enemies of Timon's and mine own,
Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof,
Fall, and no more: and, to atone your fears
With my more noble meaning,—not a man
Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream
Of regular justice in your city's bounds,
But shall be remedied, to your public laws,
At heaviest answer.

'Tis most nobly spoken. Alcib. Descend, and keep your words.

[The Senators descend, and open the Gates.

Enter a Soldier.
Sol. My noble general, Timon is dead;

Entomb'd upon the very hem o'the sea:
And on his gravestone, this insculpture; which
With wax I brought away, whose soft impression
Interprets for my poor ignorance.
Alcib. [Reads) Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched
soul bereft:

[left! Seek not my name: A plague consume you wicked caitiff's Here lie 1, Timon: who, alive, all living men did hate : Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass, and stay not here

thy gait. These well express in thee thy latter spirits : Though thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs, Scorn'dst our brain's flow, and those our droplets which From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead Is noble Timon; of whose memory Hereafter more.-Bring me into your city, And I will use the olive with my sword: Make war breed peace; make peace stint war; make each Prescribe to other, as each other's leech. Let our drums strike.


The play of Timon is a domestic tragedy, and therefore strongly fastens on the attention of the reader. In the plan there is not much art, but the incidents are natural, and the characters various and exact. The catastrophe affords a very powerful warning against that ostentatious liberality, which scatters bounty, but confers no benefits, and buys flattery, but not friendship.

In this tragedy, are many passages perplexed, obscure, and probably corrupt, which have endeavoured to rectify, or explain with due diligence; but having only one copy, cannot promise myself that my endeavours shall be much applauded.


C. Whittingham, Printer, Chiswick.

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