Timon of Athens

I might love thee something. Alcibiades

I know thee well;
But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange.

Timon

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.

Phrynia Thy lips rot off! Timon

I will not kiss thee; then the rot returns
To thine own lips again.

Alcibiades How came the noble Timon to this change? Timon

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.

Alcibiades

Noble Timon,
What friendship may I do thee?

Timon

None, but to
Maintain my opinion.

Alcibiades What is it, Timon? Timon 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 art a man! Alcibiades I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. Timon Thou saw’st them, when I had prosperity. Alcibiades I see them now; then was a blessed time. Timon As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. Timandra

Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world
Voiced so regardfully?

Timon Art thou Timandra? Timandra Yes. Timon

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 youth
To the tub-fast and the diet.

Timandra Hang thee, monster! Alcibiades

Pardon him, sweet Timandra; for his wits
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 grieved,
How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,
But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them⁠—

Timon I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone. Alcibiades I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon. Timon

How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble?
I had rather be alone.

Alcibiades

Why, fare thee well:
Here is some gold for thee.

Timon Keep it, I cannot eat it. Alcibiades When I have laid proud Athens on a heap⁠— Timon 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 conquer’d!

Alcibiades Why me, Timon? Timon

That, by killing of villains,
Thou wast born to conquer my country.
Put up thy 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 honour’d 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 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 givest me,
Not all thy counsel.

Timon Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven’s curse upon thee! Phrynia
Timandra Give us some gold, good Timon: hast thou more? Timon

Enough to make a whore forswear her trade,
And to make whores, a bawd. Hold up, you sluts,
Your aprons mountant: you are not oathable,
Although, I know, you’ll swear, terribly swear
Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues
The 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 pains, six months,
Be quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin roofs
With burthens of the dead;⁠—some that were hang’d,
No matter:⁠—wear them, betray with them: whore still;
Paint till a horse may mire upon your face,
A pox of wrinkles!

Phrynia
Timandra

Well, more gold: what then?
Believe’t, that we’ll do any thing 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 curl’d-pate ruffians bald;
And let the unscarr’d 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
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 spokest 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! Drum beats. Exeunt Alcibiades, Phrynia, and Timandra. Timon

That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness,
Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou, Digging.
Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,
Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,
Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff’d,
Engenders the black toad and adder blue,
The gilded newt and eyeless venom’d worm,
With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven
Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine;
Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,
From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!
Ensear thy fertile and conceptious