they bring not Timon. I met a courier, one mine ancient friend; Whom, though in general part we were opposed, Yet our old love made a particular force, And made us speak like friends: this man was riding From Alcibiades to Timon's cave, With letters of entreaty, which imported His fellowship i' the cause against your city, In part for his sake moved. Here come our brothers. No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect. The enemies' drum is heard, and fearful scouring Doth choke the air with dust: in, and prepare: Ours is the fall, I fear; our foes the snare. By all description this should be the place. Who's here? speak, ho! No answer! What is this? Timon is dead, who hath outstretch'd his span: Some beast rear'd this; there does not live a man. Dead, sure; and this his grave. What's on this tomb I cannot read; the character I'll take with wax: Our captain hath in every figure skill, An aged interpreter, though young in days: Before proud Athens he's set down by this, Whose fall the mark of his ambition is. Sound to this coward and lascivious town Our terrible approach. Till now you have gone on and fill'd the time With all licentious measure, making your wills The scope of justice; till now myself and such As slept within the shadow of your power Have wander'd with our traversed arms and breathed Our sufferance vainly: now the time is flush, When crouching marrow in the bearer strong Cries of itself 'No more:' now breathless wrong Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease, And pursy insolence shall break his wind With fear and horrid flight. Noble and young, When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear, We sent to thee, to give thy rages balm, To wipe out our ingratitude with loves Above their quantity. So did we woo Transformed Timon to our city's love By humble message and by promised means: We were not all unkind, nor all deserve The common stroke of war. These walls of ours Were not erected by their hands from whom You have received your griefs; nor are they such That these great towers, trophies and schools should fall For private faults in them. Nor are they living Who were the motives that you first went out; Shame that they wanted cunning, in excess Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord, Into our city with thy banners spread: By decimation, and a tithed death-- If thy revenges hunger for