Who'd be so mock'd with glory? or 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 honest lord, brought low by his own heart;
Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood,
When man's worst sin 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 dearest lord,—bless'd, 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 seat
Of monstrous friends: nor has he with him to
Supply his life, or that which can command it.
I'll follow, and inquire him out:

I'll ever serve his mind with my best will;
Whilst I have gold, I'll be his steward still.

Exit.

SCENE III.

THE WOODS.

Enter Timon.

Tim. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orb

Infect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb,

Whose procreation, residence, and birth,

Scarce is dividant,-touch them with several for

tunes;

The greater scorns the lesser: Not nature,

To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune,
But by contempt of nature.

Raise me this beggar, and denude that lord;
The senator shall bear contempt hereditary,
The beggar native honour.

It is the pasture lards the brother's sides,

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 grize 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. Therefore, be abhorr'd
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!
His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:
Destruction fang mankind!-Earth, yield me roots!
[Digging.

Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate
With thy most operant poison! What is here?
Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods,
I am no idle votarist. Roots, you clear heavens!
Thus much of this, will make black, white; foul,
fair;

Wrong, right; base, noble; old, young; coward, valiant.

Ha, you gods! why this? What this, you gods? Why this

Will lug your priests and servants from

your sides; Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads: This yellow slave

Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd;
Make the hoar leprosy ador'd; place thieves,
And give them title, knee, and approbation,
With senators on the bench: this is it,
That makes the wappen'd widow wed again;
She, whom the spital-house, and ulcerous sores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices.
To the April day again. Come, damned earth,
Thou common whore of mankind, that put'st 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, strong thief,
When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand:-
Nay, stay thou out for earnest. [Keeping some gold.

Enter Alcibiades, with drum and fife, in warlike manner; Phrynia, and Tymandra.

Alcib.

Speak.

What art thou there?

Tim. A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy

heart,

For showing me again the eyes of man!

Alcib. What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee,

That art thyself a man?

Tim. I am misanthropos, and hate mankind.

For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,

That I might love thee something.

Alcib.

I know thee well;

But in thy fortunes am unlearn'd and strange.

Tim. I know thee too; and more, than that I know thee,

I not desire to know. Follow thy drum;

With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules: Religious canons, civil laws are cruel;

Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine Hath in her more destruction than thy sword,

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.

Alcib. 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.

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'rt a man!

Alcib. I have heard in some sort of thy mise

ries.

Tim. Thou saw'st them, when I had prosperity. Alcib. I see them now; then was a blessed time. Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of har

lots.

F

Tyman. Is this the Athenian minion, whom the

world

Voic'd so regardfully?

Tim.

Tyman. Yes.

Art thou Tymandra?

Tim. Be a whore still! they love thee not, that use thee;

Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.
Make use of thy salt hours: season the slaves
For tubs, and baths; bring down rose-cheeked

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 have heard, and griev'd,
How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,
But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them,—
Tim. I pr'ythee, beat thy drum, and get thee

gone.

Alcib. I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Ti

mon.

Tim. How dost thou pity him, whom thou dost trouble?