O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth

Rotten humidity, below thy sister’s orb

Infect the air! Twinned brothers of one womb,

Whose procreation, residence and birth

Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes,

The greater scorns the lesser. Not nature,

To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune

But by contempt of nature.

Raise me this beggar, and deny’t that lord;

The senator shall bear contempt hereditary,

The beggar native honour.

It is the pasture lards the rother’s sides,

The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares

In purity of manhood stand upright

And say, “This man’s a flatterer”? If one be,

So are they all, for every grece of fortune

Is smoothed by that below. The learned pate

Ducks to the golden fool. All’s obliquy.

There’s nothing level in our cursed natures

But direct villainy. Therefore be abhorred

All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!

His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains.

Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots!

Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate

With thy most operant poison! What is here?

Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold?

No, gods, I am no idle votarist.

Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of this will make

Black white, foul fair, wrong right,

Base noble, old young, coward valiant.

Ha, you gods, why this? What this, you gods? Why, this

Will lug your priests and servants from your sides,

Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their heads.

This yellow slave

Will knit and break religions, bless th’ accursed,

Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves

And give them title, knee, and approbation

With senators on the bench. This is it

That makes the wappened widow wed again;

She whom the spittle-house and ulcerous sores

Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices

To th’ April day again. Come, damned earth,

Thou common whore of mankind, that puts odds

Among the rout of nations, I will make thee

Do thy right nature.

Ha? A drum? Thou’rt quick,

But yet I’ll bury thee. Thou’lt go, strong thief,

When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand.

Nay, stay thou out for earnest.

Timandra.

What art thou there? Speak.

A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy heart

For showing me again the eyes of man!

What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee

That art thyself a man?

I am Misanthropos and hate mankind.

For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,

That I might love thee something.

I know thee well,

But in thy fortunes am unlearned and strange.

I know thee too, and more than that I know thee

I not desire to know. Follow thy drum,

With man’s blood paint the ground gules, gules.

Religious canons, civil laws are cruel,

Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine

Hath in her more destruction than thy sword,

For all her cherubin look.

Thy lips rot off!

I will not kiss thee, then the rot returns

To thine own lips again.

How came the noble Timon to this change?

As the moon does, by wanting light to give.

But then 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 th’ 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 drowned 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 conquered!

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 honoured 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 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 thy 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 giv’st 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

Th’ 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 burdens of the dead—some that were hanged,

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 anything 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 curled-pate ruffians bald,

And let the unscarred 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.

Yes, thou spok’st well of me.

Call’st thou that harm?

Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take

Thy beagles with thee.

We but offend him. Strike.

That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness,

Should yet be hungry! [_He digs_.] Common mother, thou,

Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast

Teems and feeds all; whose selfsame mettle

Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed,

Engenders the black toad and adder blue,

The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm,

With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven

Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine:

Yield him who all thy human sons doth hate,

From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!

Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb,

Let it no more bring out ingrateful man.

Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears;

Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face

Hath to the marbled mansion all above

Never presented. O, a root, dear thanks!

Dry up thy marrows, vines and plough-torn leas,

Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts

And morsels unctuous greases his pure mind,

That from it all consideration slips—

More man? Plague, plague!

I was directed hither. Men report

Thou dost affect my manners and dost use them.

’Tis, then, because thou dost not keep a dog

Whom I would imitate. Consumption catch thee!

This is in thee a nature but infected,

A poor unmanly melancholy sprung

From change of fortune. Why this spade, this place?

This slave-like habit and these looks of care?

Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft,

Hug their diseased perfumes, and have forgot

That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods

By putting on the cunning of a carper.

Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive

By that which has undone thee. Hinge thy knee

And let his very breath whom thou’lt observe

Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain,

And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus;

Thou gav’st thine ears, like tapsters that bade welcome,

To knaves and all approachers. ’Tis most just

That thou turn rascal; had’st thou wealth again,

Rascals should have’t. Do not assume my likeness.

Were I like thee, I’d throw away myself.

Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself

A madman so long, now a fool. What, think’st

That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,

Will put thy shirt on warm? Will these mossed trees,

That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels

And skip when thou point’st out? Will the cold brook,

Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste

To cure thy o’ernight’s surfeit? Call the creatures

Whose naked natures live in all the spite

Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks,

To the conflicting elements exposed,

Answer mere nature, bid them flatter thee.

O, thou shalt find—

A fool of thee. Depart.

I love thee better now than e’er I did.

I hate thee worse.

Why?

Thou flatter’st misery.

I flatter not, but say thou art a caitiff.

Why dost thou seek me out?

To vex thee.

Always a villain’s office or a fool’s.

Dost please thyself in’t?

Ay.

What, a knave too?

If thou didst put this sour cold habit on

To castigate thy pride, ’twere well; but thou

Dost it enforcedly. Thou’dst courtier be again

Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery

Outlives incertain pomp, is crowned before;

The one is filling still, never complete,

The other, at high wish. Best state, contentless,

Hath a distracted and most wretched being,

Worse than the worst, content.

Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable.

Not by his breath that is more miserable.

Thou art a slave whom Fortune’s tender arm

With favour never clasped, but bred a dog.

Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded

The sweet degrees that this brief world affords

To such as may the passive drugs of it

Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself

In general riot, melted down thy youth

In different beds of lust and never learned

The icy precepts of respect, but followed

The sugared game before thee. But myself—

Who had the world as my confectionary,

The mouths, the tongues, the eyes and hearts of men

At duty, more than I could frame employment,

That numberless upon me stuck as leaves

Do on the oak, have with one winter’s brush

Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare

For every storm that blows—I to bear this,

That never knew but better, is some burden.

Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time

Hath made thee hard in’t. Why shouldst thou hate men?

They never flattered thee. What hast thou given?

If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag,

Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff

To some she-beggar and compounded thee

Poor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone!

If thou hadst not been born the worst of men,

Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer.

Art thou proud yet?

Ay, that I am not thee.

I, that I was no prodigal.

I, that I am one now.

Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee,

I’d give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone.

That the whole life of Athens were in this!

Thus would I eat it.

Here, I will mend thy feast.

First mend my company, take away thyself.

So I shall mend mine own, by th’ lack of thine.

’Tis not well mended so, it is but botched.

If not, I would it were.

What wouldst thou have to Athens?

Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt,

Tell them there I have gold. Look, so I have.

Here is no use for gold.

The best and truest,

For here it sleeps and does no hired harm.

Where liest a-nights, Timon?

Under that’s above me. Where feed’st thou a-days, Apemantus?

Where my stomach finds meat, or rather where I eat it.

Would poison were obedient and knew my mind!

Where wouldst thou send it?

To sauce thy dishes.

The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the extremity of both

ends. When thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked thee for

too much curiosity; in thy rags thou know’st none, but art despised for

the contrary. There’s a medlar for thee. Eat it.

On what I hate I feed not.

Dost hate a medlar?

Ay, though it look like thee.

An thou’dst hated medlars sooner, thou shouldst have loved thyself

better now. What man didst thou ever know unthrift that was beloved

after his means?

Who, without those means thou talk’st of, didst thou ever know beloved?

Myself.

I understand thee. Thou hadst some means to keep a dog.

What things in the world canst thou nearest compare to thy flatterers?

Women nearest; but men—men are the things themselves. What wouldst thou

do with the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power?

Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men.

Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the confusion of men and remain a

beast with the beasts?

Ay, Timon.

A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t’ attain to. If thou

wert the lion, the fox would beguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the

fox would eat thee; if thou wert the fox, the lion would suspect thee

when peradventure thou wert accused by the ass; if thou wert the ass,

thy dulness would torment thee, and still thou lived’st but as a

breakfast to the wolf; if thou wert the wolf, thy greediness would

afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for thy dinner.

Wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee and make

thine own self the conquest of thy fury; wert thou a bear, thou wouldst

be killed by the horse; wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by

the leopard; wert thou a leopard, thou wert germane to the lion, and

the spots of thy kindred were jurors on thy life. All thy safety were

remotion, and thy defence absence. What beast couldst thou be that were

not subject to a beast? And what beast art thou already that seest not

thy loss in transformation!

If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou mightst have hit

upon it here. The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.

How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city?

Yonder comes a poet and a painter. The plague of company light upon

thee! I will fear to catch it, and give way. When I know not what else

to do, I’ll see thee again.

When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be welcome. I had

rather be a beggar’s dog than Apemantus.

Thou art the cap of all the fools alive.

Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!

A plague on thee! Thou art too bad to curse.

All villains that do stand by thee are pure.

There is no leprosy but what thou speak’st.

If I name thee,

I’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.

I would my tongue could rot them off!

Away, thou issue of a mangy dog!

Choler does kill me that thou art alive.

I swoon to see thee.

Would thou wouldst burst!

Away, thou tedious rogue!

I am sorry I shall lose a stone by thee.

Beast!

Slave!

Toad!

Rogue, rogue, rogue!

I am sick of this false world, and will love nought

But even the mere necessities upon’t.

Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave.

Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat

Thy gravestone daily. Make thine epitaph,

That death in me at others’ lives may laugh.

[_To the gold._] O thou sweet king-killer and dear divorce

’Twixt natural son and sire; thou bright defiler

Of Hymen’s purest bed, thou valiant Mars;

Thou ever young, fresh, loved, and delicate wooer,

Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

That lies on Dian’s lap; thou visible god,

That solder’st close impossibilities

And mak’st them kiss, that speak’st with every tongue

To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts,

Think thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue

Set them into confounding odds, that beasts

May have the world in empire!

Would ’twere so!

But not till I am dead. I’ll say thou’st gold;

Thou wilt be thronged to shortly.

Thronged to?

Ay.

Thy back, I prithee.

Live and love thy misery.

Long live so, and so die! I am quit.

More things like men. Eat, Timon, and abhor them.

Where should he have this gold? It is some poor fragment, some slender

ort of his remainder. The mere want of gold and the falling-from of his

friends drove him into this melancholy.

It is noised he hath a mass of treasure.

Let us make the assay upon him. If he care not for’t, he will supply us

easily; if he covetously reserve it, how shall’s get it?

True, for he bears it not about him. ’Tis hid.

Is not this he?

Where?

’Tis his description.

He; I know him.

Save thee, Timon!

Now, thieves?

Soldiers, not thieves.

Both too, and women’s sons.

We are not thieves, but men that much do want.

Your greatest want is, you want much of meat.

Why should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots,

Within this mile break forth a hundred springs,

The oaks bear mast, the briars scarlet hips,

The bounteous housewife Nature on each bush

Lays her full mess before you. Want? Why want?

We cannot live on grass, on berries, water,

As beasts and birds and fishes.

Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds, and fishes;

You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con

That you are thieves professed, that you work not

In holier shapes, for there is boundless theft

In limited professions. Rascal thieves,

Here’s gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o’ th’ grape

Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth,

And so scape hanging. Trust not the physician;

His antidotes are poison, and he slays

More than you rob. Take wealth and lives together,

Do villainy, do, since you protest to do’t,

Like workmen. I’ll example you with thievery.

The sun’s a thief and with his great attraction

Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief,

And her pale fire she snatches from the sun;

The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves

The moon into salt tears; the earth’s a thief,

That feeds and breeds by a composture stol’n

From general excrement. Each thing’s a thief.

The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power

Has unchecked theft. Love not yourselves; away!

Rob one another. There’s more gold. Cut throats,

All that you meet are thieves. To Athens go,

Break open shops, nothing can you steal

But thieves do lose it. Steal no less for this I give you,

And gold confound you howsoe’er! Amen.

Has almost charmed me from my profession by persuading me to it.

’Tis in the malice of mankind that he thus advises us, not to have us

thrive in our mystery.

I’ll believe him as an enemy and give over my trade.

Let us first see peace in Athens. There is no time so miserable but a

man may be true.

O you gods!

Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord?

Full of decay and failing? O monument

And wonder of good deeds evilly bestowed!

What an alteration of honour has desperate want made!

What viler thing upon the earth than friends

Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends!

How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise,

When man was wished to love his enemies!

Grant I may ever love, and rather woo

Those that would mischief me than those that do!

He has caught me in his eye. I will present

My honest grief unto him and as my lord

Still serve him with my life.—My dearest master!

Away! What art thou?

Have you forgot me, sir?

Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men.

Then, if thou grant’st thou’rt a man, I have forgot thee.

An honest poor servant of yours.

Then I know thee not.

I never had honest man about me. I; all

I kept were knaves to serve in meat to villains.

The gods are witness,

Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief

For his undone lord than mine eyes for you.

What, dost thou weep? Come nearer then. I love thee

Because thou art a woman and disclaim’st

Flinty mankind, whose eyes do never give

But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping.

Strange times that weep with laughing, not with weeping!

I beg of you to know me, good my lord,

T’ accept my grief, and whilst this poor wealth lasts

To entertain me as your steward still.

Had I a steward

So true, so just, and now so comfortable?

It almost turns my dangerous nature mild.

Let me behold thy face. Surely this man

Was born of woman.

Forgive my general and exceptless rashness,

You perpetual sober gods! I do proclaim

One honest man, mistake me not, but one;

No more, I pray, and he’s a steward.

How fain would I have hated all mankind,

And thou redeem’st thyself. But all, save thee,

I fell with curses.

Methinks thou art more honest now than wise,

For by oppressing and betraying me

Thou mightst have sooner got another service;

For many so arrive at second masters

Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true—

For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure—

Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous,

A usuring kindness and as rich men deal gifts,

Expecting in return twenty for one?

No, my most worthy master, in whose breast

Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late.

You should have feared false times when you did feast,

Suspect still comes where an estate is least.

That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,

Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind,

Care of your food and living. And believe it,

My most honoured lord,

For any benefit that points to me,

Either in hope or present, I’d exchange

For this one wish, that you had power and wealth

To requite me by making rich yourself.

Look thee, ’tis so! Thou singly honest man,

Here, take. The gods out of my misery

Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy,

But thus conditioned: thou shalt build from men;

Hate all, curse all, show charity to none,

But let the famished flesh slide from the bone

Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs

What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow ’em,

Debts wither ’em to nothing; be men like blasted woods,

And may diseases lick up their false bloods!

And so farewell and thrive.

O, let me stay

And comfort you, my master.

If thou hat’st curses,

Stay not. Fly whilst thou’rt blest and free.

Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee.