Warr‘st thou ’gainst Athens?

ALCIBIADES Ay, Timon, and have cause.

TIMON

The gods confound them all in thy conquest,

And thee after, when thou hast conquered.

ALCIBIADES

Why me, Timon?

TIMON That by killing of villains

Thou wast born to conquer my country.

Put up thy gold.

He gives Alcibiades gold

Go on; here’s gold; go on.

Be as a planetary plague when Jove

Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison

In the sick air. Let not thy sword skip one.

Pity not honoured age for his white beard;

He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron;

It is her habit only that is honest,

Herself’s a bawd. Let not the virgin’s cheek

Make soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk paps

That through the window-bars bore at men’s eyes

Are not within the leaf of pity writ;

But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the

babe

Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy.

Think it a bastard whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,

And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects.

Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes

Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,

Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,

Shall pierce a jot. There’s gold to pay thy soldiers.

Make large confusion, and, thy fury spent,

Confounded be thyself. Speak not. Be gone.

ALCIBIADES

Hast thou gold yet? I’ll take the gold thou giv’st me,

Not all thy counsel.

TIMON

Dost thou or dost thou not, heaven’s curse upon thee!

PHRYNIA and TIMANDRA

Give us some gold, good Timon. Hast thou more?

TIMON

Enough to make a whore forswear her trade,

And to make wholesomeness a bawd. Hold up, you

sluts,

Your aprons mountant.

⌈He throws gold into their aprons⌉

You are not oathable,

Although I know you’ll swear, terribly swear,

Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues

Th’immortal gods that hear you. Spare your oaths;

I’ll trust to your conditions. Be whores still,

And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you,

Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up.

Let your close fire predominate his smoke;

And be no turncoats. Yet may your pain-sick months

Be quite contrary, and thatch your poor thin roofs

With burdens of the dead—some that were hanged,

No matter. Wear them, betray with them; whore still;

Paint till a horse may mire upon your face.

A pox of wrinkles!

PHRYNIA and TIMANDRA Well, more gold; what then?

Believe’t that we’ll do anything for gold.

TIMON Consumptions sow

In hollow bones of man, strike their sharp shins,

And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer’s voice,

That he may never more false title plead

Nor sound his quillets shrilly. Hoar the flamen

That scolds against the quality of flesh

And not believes himself. Down with the nose,

Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away

Of him that his particular to foresee

Smells from the general weal. Make curled-pate

ruffians bald,

And let the unscarred 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!

PHRYNIA and TIMANDRA

More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon.

TIMON

More whore, more mischief first; I have given you earnest.

ALCIBIADES

Strike up the drum towards Athens. Farewell, Timon.

If I thrive well, I’ll visit thee again.

TIMON

If I hope well, I’ll never see thee more.

ALCIBIADES I never did thee harm.

TIMON Yes, thou spok’st well of me.

ALCIBIADES Call’st thou that harm?

TIMON

Men daily find it. Get thee away,

And take thy beagles with thee.

ALCIBIADES We but offend him. Strike!

Exeunt ⌈to drum and fife⌉ all but Timon

TIMON

That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness,

Should yet be hungry!

He digs the earth

Common mother—thou

Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast

Teems and feeds all, whose selfsame mettle

Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed

Engenders the black toad and adder blue,

The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm,

With all th‘abhorrèd births below crisp heaven

Whereon Hyperion’s quick’ning fire doth shine—

Yield him who all thy human sons do hate

From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root.

Ensear thy fertile and conceptions womb;

Let it no more bring out ingrateful man.

Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears;

Teem with new monsters whom thy upward face

Hath to the marbled mansion all above

Never presented.

He finds a root

O, a root! Dear thanks.

Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas,

Whereof ingrateful man with liquorish draughts

And morsels unctuous greases his pure mind,

That from it all consideration slips!—

Enter Apemantus

More man? Plague, plague!

APEMANTUS

I was directed hither. Men report

Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them.