Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? Roots, you clear heav'ns! thus much of this will make Base, noble; old, young; coward, valiant. You Gods! why this? what this? you Gods! why, this Will lug your priests and fervants from your fides: Will knit and break religions; bless th' accurs'd; [March afar off.] Ha, a drum?thou'rt quick, But yet I'll bury thee thou'lt go, (ftrong thief) When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand. Nay, ftay thou out for earnest. SCENE [Keeping fome gold. IV. Enter Alcibiades with drum and fife in warlike manner, and Phrynia and Timandra. , Alc. THAT art thou there? speak. WH Tim. A beast, as thou art. Cankers gnaw thy heart, For fhewing me again the eyes of man! Alc. What is thy name? is man fo hateful to thee, That art thyself a man? Tim. * Tim. I am Mifanthropos, and hate mankind. Alc. I know thee well: But in thy fortunes am unlearn'd, and ftrange. Tim. I know thee too, and more than that I know thee, I not defire to know. Follow thy drum, With man's blood paint the ground; gules, gules ;- Then what fhould war be? this fell whore of thine Phry. Thy lips rot off! Tim. I will not kifs thee, then the Rot returns To thine own lips again. " ! Alc. How came the noble Timon to this change? Tim. As the moon does, by wanting light to give: But then renew I could not, like the moon ; There were no funs to borrow of. Alc. Noble Timon, what friendship may I do thee? Tim. None, but to maintain my Opinion. Alc. What is it, Timon? Tim. Promise me friendship, but perform none. If thou wilt not promife, the Gods plague thee, for thou art a man: if thou doft perform, confound thee, for thou art a man ! Alc. I've heard in some sort of thy miseries. Tim. Thou faw'ft them when I had profperity. Alc. I fee them now, then was a blessed time. Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. Timan. Is this th' Athenian minion, whom the world Voic'd fo regardfully? *I am Mifanthropos,-] Moliere has Wrote a fine Comedy, called from the Hero of the Piece, The Mifanthrope, which our Wycherley has imitated, calling it, The Plain-dealer. Now, in fact, it happens, that Moliere's Mifanthrope is but a Plain-dealer, and Wycherley's Plain-dealer is a direct Mifanthrope. Warburton. Tim. Art thou Timandra? Timan. Yes.. Tim. Be a whore ftill they love thee not, that use thee: 1 Give them diseases, leaving with thee their luft: Make use of thy falt hours, feason the flaves For tubs and baths, bring down the rofe-cheek'd youth To th' Tub-faft, and the diet. Timan. Hang thee, monfter!" Alc. Pardon him, fweet Timandra, for his wits I have but little gold of late, brave Timon, Alc. Why, fare thee well, Here's gold for thee. Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it. Alc. When I have laid proud Athens on a heapTim. Warr'ft thou 'gainst Athens? Alc. Ay, Timon, and have caufe: Tim. The Gods confound them all then in thy And, after, Thee, when thou haft conquered! Tim. That by killing of villains Pity not honour'd áge for his white beard, Herfelf's a bawd. Let not the virgin's cheek Set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe, mercy; Think it a baftard, whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat fhall cut, I'll take the gold thou giv'ft me, not thy counfel. Tim. Doft thou, or doft thou not, heav'n's curfe upon thee! Both. Give us fome gold, good Timon: haft thou more? Tim. Enough to make a whore forfwear her trade, And to make whole a bawd. Hold up, you fluts, Your aprons mountant; you're not othable, Although, I know, you'll fwear; terribly swear Into ftrong fhudders, and to heav'nly agues, Th' immortal Gods that hear you. Spare your oaths: I'll truft to your conditions, be whores ftill, And he whofe pious breath feeks to convert you, Be ftrong in whore, allure him, burn him up. Let your clofe fire predominate his fmoke, And be no turn-coats: yet may your pains fix months Be quite contrary. Make falfe hair, and thatch Your Your poor thin roofs with burdens of the dead, -) (Some that were hang'd, no matter: Wear them, betray with them; and whore on ftill: Paint 'till a horse may mire upon your face; A pox of wrinkles! Both. Well, more gold. -what then? Believe, that we'll do any thing for gold. Tim. Confumptions fow In hollow bones of man, ftrike their sharp fhins, Nor found his quillets fhrilly. Hoar the Flamen, And not believes himself. Down with the nose, Smells from the gen'ral weal. Make curl'd-pate ruffians bald, And let the unfcarr'd braggarts of the war [Timon. Both. More counsel with more money, bounteous Tim. More whore, more mifchief, firft; I've given you earnest. Alc. Strike up the drum tow'rds Athens; farewel, Timon: If I thrive well, I'll vifit thee again. Tim. If I hope well, I'll never fee thee more. Alc. I never did thee harm. Tim. Yes, thou spok'ft well of me. Alc. Call'ft thou that harm? Tim. Men daily find it. Get thee hence, away. And take thy beagles with thee. Alc. We but offend him: ftrike. [Exeunt Alcibiad. Phryn. and Timand. SCENE |