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. Hast thou gold yet? I'll take the gold thou givest me, Not all thy counsel. Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven's curse upon thee! Give us some gold, good Timon: hast thou more? 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! Well, more gold: what then? Believe't, that we'll do any thing for gold. 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! More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon. More whore, more mischief first; I have given you earnest. Strike up the drum towards Athens! Farewell, Timon: If I thrive well, I'll visit thee again. If I hope well, I'll never see thee more. I never did thee harm.