you have throats to answer: for myself, There's not a whittle in the unruly camp But I do prize it at my love before The reverend'st throat in Athens. So I leave you To the protection of the prosperous gods, As thieves to keepers. Stay not, all's in vain. Why, I was writing of my epitaph; it will be seen to-morrow: my long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still; Be Alcibiades your plague, you his, And last so long enough! We speak in vain. But yet I love my country, and am not One that rejoices in the common wreck, As common bruit doth put it. That's well spoke. Commend me to my loving countrymen,-- These words become your lips as they pass thorough them. And enter in our ears like great triumphers In their applauding gates. Commend me to them, And tell them that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them: I'll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades' wrath. I like this well; he will return again. I have a tree, which grows here in my close, That mine own use invites me to cut down, And shortly must I fell it: tell my friends, Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree From high to low throughout, that whoso please To stop affliction, let him take his haste, Come hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe, And hang himself. I pray you, do my greeting. Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him. Come not to me again: but say to Athens, Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the beached verge of the salt flood; Who once a day with his embossed froth The turbulent surge shall cover: thither come, And let my grave-stone be your oracle. Lips, let sour words go by and language end: What is amiss plague and infection mend! Graves only be men's works and death their gain! Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign. His discontents are unremoveably Coupled to nature. Our hope in him is dead: let us return, And strain what other means is left unto us In our dear peril. It requires swift foot. Thou hast painfully discover'd: are his files As full as thy report? have spoke the least: Besides, his expedition promises Present approach. We stand much hazard, if