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