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  • Title: Timon of Athens (Folio 1, 1623)

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    Author: William Shakespeare
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    Timon of Athens (Folio 1, 1623)

    Timon of Athens. 91
    This yellow Slaue,
    Will knit and breake Religions, blesse th'accurst,
    Make the hoare Leprosie ador'd, place Theeues,
    And giue them Title, knee, and approbation
    1640With Senators on the Bench: This is it
    That makes the wappen'd Widdow wed againe;
    Shee, whom the Spittle-house, and vlcerous sores,
    Would cast the gorge at. This Embalmes and Spices
    To'th'Aprill day againe. Come damn'd Earth,
    1645Thou common whore of Mankinde, that puttes oddes
    Among the rout of Nations, I will make thee
    Do thy right Nature. March afarre off.
    Ha? A Drumme? Th'art quicke,
    But yet Ile bury thee: Thou't go (strong Theefe)
    1650When Gowty keepers of thee cannot stand:
    Nay stay thou out for earnest.

    Enter Alcibiades withDrumme andFife in warlike manner,
    and Phrynia and Timandra.

    Alc. What art thou there? speake.
    1655Tim. A Beast as thou art. The Canker gnaw thy hart
    For shewing me againe the eyes of Man.
    Alc. What is thy name? Is man so hatefull to thee,
    That art thy selfe a Man?
    Tim. I am Misantropos, and hate Mankinde.
    1660For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dogge,
    That I might loue thee something.
    Alc. I know thee well:
    But in thy Fortunes am vnlearn'd, and strange.
    Tim. I know thee too, and more then that I know thee
    1665I not desire to know. Follow thy Drumme,
    With mans blood paint the ground Gules, Gules:
    Religious Cannons, ciuill Lawes are cruell,
    Then what should warre be? This fell whore of thine,
    Hath in her more destruction then thy Sword,
    1670For all her Cherubin looke.
    Phrin. Thy lips rot off.
    Tim. I will not kisse thee, then the rot returnes
    To thine owne lippes againe.
    Alc. How came the Noble Timon to this change?
    1675Tim. As the Moone do's, by wanting light to giue:
    But then renew I could not like the Moone,
    There were no Sunnes to borrow of.
    Alc. Noble Timon, what friendship may I do thee?
    Tim. None, but to maintaine my opinion.
    1680Alc. What is it Timon?
    Tim. Promise me Friendship, but performe none.
    If thou wilt not promise, the Gods plague thee, for thou
    art a man: if thou do'st performe, confound thee, for
    thou art a man.
    1685Alc. I haue heard in some sort of thy Miseries.
    Tim. Thou saw'st them when I had prosperitie.
    Alc. I see them now, then was a blessed time.
    Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of Harlots.
    Timan. Is this th'Athenian Minion, whom the world
    1690Voic'd so regardfully?
    Tim. Art thou Timandra? Timan. Yes.
    Tim. Be a whore still, they loue thee not that vse thee,
    giue them diseases, leauing with thee their Lust. Make
    vse of thy salt houres, season the slaues for Tubbes and
    1695Bathes, bring downe Rose-cheekt youth to the Fubfast,
    and the Diet.
    Timan. Hang thee Monster.
    Alc. Pardon him sweet Timandra, for his wits
    Are drown'd and lost in his Calamities.
    1700I haue but little Gold of late, braue Timon,
    The want whereof, doth dayly make reuolt
    In my penurious Band. I haue heard and greeu'd
    How cursed Athens, mindelesse of thy worth,
    Forgetting thy great deeds, when Neighbour states
    1705But for thy Sword and Fortune trod vpon them.
    Tim. I prythee beate thy Drum, and get thee gone.
    Alc. I am thy Friend, and pitty thee deere Timon.
    Tim. How doest thou pitty him whom yu dost troble,
    I had rather be alone.
    1710Alc. Why fare thee well:
    Heere is some Gold for thee.
    Tim. Keepe it, I cannot eate it.
    Alc. When I haue laid proud Athens on a heape.
    Tim. Warr'st thou 'gainst Athens.
    1715Alc. I Timon, and haue cause.
    Tim. The Gods confound them all in thy Conquest,
    And thee after, when thou hast Conquer'd.
    Alc. Why me, Timon?
    Tim. That by killing of Villaines
    1720Thou was't borne to conquer my Country.
    Put vp thy Gold. Go on, heeres Gold, go on;
    Be as a Plannetary plague, when Ioue
    Will o're some high-Vic'd City, hang his poyson
    In the sicke ayre: let not thy sword skip one:
    1725Pitty not honour'd Age for his white Beard,
    He is an Vsurer. Strike me the counterfet Matron,
    It is her habite onely, that is honest,
    Her selfe's a Bawd. Let not the Virgins cheeke
    Make soft thy trenchant Sword: for those Milke pappes
    1730That through the window Barne bore at mens eyes,
    Are not within the Leafe of pitty writ,
    But set them down horrible Traitors. Spare not the Babe
    Whose dimpled smiles from Fooles exhaust their mercy;
    Thinke it a Bastard, whom the Oracle
    1735Hath doubtfully pronounced, the throat shall cut,
    And mince it sans remorse. Sweare against Obiects,
    Put Armour on thine eares, and on thine eyes,
    Whose proofe, nor yels of Mothers, Maides, nor Babes,
    Nor sight of Priests in holy Vestments bleeding,
    1740Shall pierce a iot. There's Gold to pay thy Souldiers,
    Make large confusion: and thy fury spent,
    Confounded be thy selfe. Speake not, be gone.
    Alc. Hast thou Gold yet, Ile take the Gold thou gi-
    uest me, not all thy Counsell.
    1745Tim. Dost thou or dost thou not, Heauens curse vpon
    Both. Giue vs some Gold good Timon, hast yu more?
    Tim. Enough to make a Whore forsweare her Trade,
    And to make Whores, a Bawd. Hold vp you Sluts
    1750Your Aprons mountant; you are not Othable,
    Although I know you'l sweare, terribly sweare
    Into strong shudders, and to heauenly Agues
    Th'immortall Gods that heare you. Spare your Oathes:
    Ile trust to your Conditions, be whores still.
    1755And he whose pious breath seekes to conuert you,
    Be strong in Whore, allure him, burne him vp,
    Let your close fire predominate his smoke,
    And be no turne-coats: yet may your paines six months
    Be quite contrary, And Thatch
    1760Your poore thin Roofes with burthens of the dead,
    (Some that were hang'd) no matter:
    Weare them, betray with them; Whore still,
    Paint till a horse may myre vpon your face:
    A pox of wrinkles.
    1765Both. Well, more Gold, what then?
    hh2 Beleeue't