renew I could not, like the moon; There were no suns to borrow of. Noble Timon, What friendship may I do thee? None, but to Maintain my opinion. What is it, 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! I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. Thou saw'st them, when I had prosperity. I see them now; then was a blessed time. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world Voiced so regardfully? Art thou Timandra? Yes. 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. Hang thee, monster! 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,-- I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone. I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon. How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble? I had rather be alone. Why, fare thee well: Here is some gold for thee. Keep it, I cannot eat it. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap,-- Warr'st thou 'gainst Athens? Ay, Timon, and have cause. The gods confound them all in thy conquest; And thee after, when thou hast conquer'd! Why me, 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