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Tim. I will not kifs thee, then the Rot returns
To thine own Lips again,

Alc. 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.

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

Alc. What is it, Timon?

Tim. Promise 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.

Alc. I have heard in fome fort of thy Miferies. Tim. Thou faw'ft them when I had Profperity. 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 thɛe, give them Difeafes, leaving with thee their Luft. Make ufe of thy falt Hours, feafon the Slaves for Tubs and Baths, bring down Rofe-cheek'd Youth to the Fubfaft, and the Diet.

Timan. Hang thee, Monster.

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. I heard and griev'd,
How curfed Athens, mindlefs of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great Deeds, when neighbour States,
But for thy Sword and Fortune, trod upon them-
Tim. I prithee 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 had rather be alone.

Alc. Why fare thee well: Here is fome Gold for thee.

Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it.

Alc. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap.
Tim. War'ft thou 'gainft Athens ?

Alc. Ay, Timon, and have caufe.

Tim. The Gods confound them all in thy Conqueft,

And thee after, when thou haft conquer'd.

Alc. Why me, Timon?

Tim. That by killing of Villains
Thou waft born to conquer my Country.
Put up thy Gold. Go on, here's Gold, go on;
Be as a planetary Plague, whom Jove

Will, o'er fome high-vic'd City, hang his poifon
In the fick Air: let not thy Sword skip one.
Pity not honour'd Age for his white Bread,
He is an Ufurer. Strike me the counterfeit Matron,
It is her Habit only, that is honest,

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Her felf's a Bawd. Let not the Virgin's Cheek
Make foft thy trenchant Sword; for thofe Milk-Paps
That through the window Barn bore at Mens Eyes,
Are not within the Leaf of Pity writ,

But fet them down horrible Traitors. Spare not the Babe
Whofe dimpled fmiles from Fools exhauft their Mercy;
Think it a Batard, whom the Oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounced, the Throat fhall cut,
And mince it fans remorfe. Swear against Objects,
Put Armour on thine Ears, and on thine Eyes,
Whofe proof, or yells of Mothers, Maids, nor Babes,
Nor fight of Priefts in holy Veftments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot. There's Gold to pay thy Soldiers.
Make large Confufion; and thy fury spent,
Confounded be thy felf. Speak not, be gone.

Alc. Haft thou Gold yet? I'll take the Gold thou givest me, not all thy Counsel.

Tim. Doft thou, or doft thou not, Heav'ns Curfe upon thee.

Both. Give us fome Gold, good Timon, haft thou more? Tim. Enough to make a Whore forfwear her Trade, And to make Whores, a Bawd. Hold up, you Sluts, Your Aprons mountant, you are not Othable, Although I know you'll fwear, terribly fwear, Into ftrong thudders, and to heavenly Agues

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Th'im

Th' immortal Gods that hear you. Spare your Oaths:
I'll truft to your Conditions, be Whores ftill.
And he whofe pious Breath feeks to convert you,
Be ftrong in Whore, allure him, burn him up.
Let your close Fire predominate his Smoak,

And be no Turn-coats: yet may your pains fix Months
Be quite contrary. And thatch

Your poor thin Roofs, with burthens of the Dead,
(Some that were hang'd) no matter:

War them, betray with them; whore ftill.
Paint 'till a Horfe may mire upon your Face;
A Pox of Wrinkles.

Both. Well, more Gold

what then?

Believe that we'll do any thing for Gold.
Tim. Confumptions fow

In hollow Bones of Man, ftrike their sharp Shins,
And mar Mens fpurring. Crack the Lawyer's Voice,
That he may never more falfe Title plead,

Nor found his Quillets thrilly. Hoar the Flamen,
That fcolds against the quality of Flefh,

And not believes himfelf: Down with the Nose,
Down with it flat, take the Bridge quite away
Of him, that his particular to foresee

(bald,

Smells from the general Weal. Make curl'd-pate Ruffians And let the unfcarr'd Braggarts of the War

Derive fome pain from you. Plague all,

That your activity may defeat, and quell
The fource of all Erection.

There's more Gold.

Do you Damn others, and let this Damn you,
And Ditches grave you all.

Both. More counfel with more Mony, bounteous Timon. Tim. More Whore, more Mischief firft; I have given you earneft.

Alc. Strike up the Drum towards Athens; farewel Timon: if I thrive well, I'll vifit thee again.

Tim. If I hope well, I'll never fee thee more.

Alc. I never did thee harm.

Tim. Yes, thou fpok'ft well of me.

Alc. Call'st thou that harm?

Tim. Men daily find it. Get thee away, And take thy Beagles with thee.

Alc.

Alc. We but offend him, ftrike.

[Exeunt.

Tim. That Nature being fick of Man's Unkindness
Should yet be hungry: Common Mother, thou
Whole Womb unmeafurable, and infinite Breaft
Teems and feeds all; whofe felf fame mettle
Whereof thy proud Child, arrogant Man, is puft,
Engenders the black Toad, and Adder blue,
The gilded Newt, and Eyelfs venom'd Worm,
With all the abhorred Births below crifp Heav'n,
Whereon Hyperions quickning Fire doth fhine;
Yield him, who all the Human Sons do's hate,
From forth thy plenteous Bofom, one poor Root.
Enfear thy Fertile, and Conceptious Womb,
Let it no more bring out ingrateful Man.

'Go great with Tygers, Dragons, Wolves and Bears,
Teem with new Monfters, whom thy upward Face
Hath to the marbled Manfion all above

Never prefented. O, a Root-dear Thanks:
Dry up thy Marrows, Veins, and Plough-torn Leas,
Whereof ingrateful Man with Liquorish Draughts
And Morfels unctious, greafes his pure Mind,
That from it all Confideration flips-

Enter Apemantus.
More Man? Plague, Plague.

Apem. I was directed hither. Men report, Thou dost affect my Manners, and doft ufe them. Tim. 'Tis then, because thou doft not keep a Dog Whom I would imitate; Confumption catch thee. Apem. This is in thee a Nature but affected,

A poor unmanly Melancholy fprung

From change of Fortune. Why this Spade? this place?
This Slave-like Habit, and thefe looks of Care?
Thy Flatterers yet wear Silk, drink Wine, lye foft,
Hug their difeafed Perfumes, and have forgot
Thatever Timon was. Shame not thefe Woods,
By putting on the cunning of a Carper.
Be thou a Flatterer now, and feek to thrive
By that which has undone thee; hinge thy Knee,
And let his very Breath whom thou'lt obferve
Blow off thy Cap; praise his most vicious Strain,
And call it excellent; thou waft told thus:

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Thou

Thou gav❜ft thine Ears, like Tapfters, that bid welcome,
To Knaves, and all Approachers: 'Tis most just
That thou turn Rafcal, hadft thou Wealth again,
Rafcals fhould hav't. Do not affume my Likeness.
Tim. Were I like thee, I'd throw away my felf.
Apem. Thou haft caft away thy felf, being like thy felf
A Mad-man fo long, now a Fool: What think'ft
That the bleak Air, thy boisterous Chamberlain,
Will put thy Shirt on warm? Will these moift Trees,
That have out-liv'd the Eagle, page thy Heels,
And Skip when thou point'ft out? Will the cold Brook
Candied with Ice, cawdle thy morning taste

To cure thy o'er-night's Surfeit? Call the Creatures,
Whofe naked Natures live in all the spight

Of wreekful Heav'n, whose bare unhoused Trunks,
To the conflicting Elements expos'd,

Anfwer meer Nature; bid them flatter thee;
Oh! thou fhalt find-

Tim. A Fool of thee; depart.

Apem. I love thee better now than e'er I did.
Tim. I hate thee worse,

Apem. Why?

Tim. Thou flatter'ft Mifery,

Apem. I flatter not, but fay thou art a Caytiff.
Tim. Why doft thou feck me out?

Apem. To vex thee.

Tim. Always a Villain's Office, or a Fool's. Doft please thy felf in't?

Apem. Ay.

Tim. What! a Knave too?

Apem. If thou didft put this fowre cold Habit on
To caftigate thy Pride, 'twere well; but thou
Deft it enforcedly: Thou'dft Courtier be again,
Wert thou not Beggar; willing Mifery
Out-lives incertain Pomp; is crown'd before:
The one is filling ftill, never Compleat;
The other, at high wish, best state Contentless,
Hath a distracted and most wretched Being,
Worfe than the worft, Content..

Thou shouldft defire to die, being miferable.

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