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Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold?
No, Gods, I am no idle votarift.

Roots, you clear heav'ns! thus much of this will make
Black, white; fair, foul; wrong, right;

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:
Pluck ftout men's pillows from below their heads.
This yellow flave

Will knit and break religions; bless th' accurs'd;
Make the hoar leprofy ador'd; place thieves,
And give them title, knee, and approbation,
With fenators on the bench: this is it,
That makes the waped widow wed again;
She whom the spittle houfe, and ulcerous fores
Would caft the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To th' April day again. Come, damned earth,
Thou common whore of mankind, that putt'ft odds
Among the rout of nations, I will make thee
Do thy right nature.-

[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.
For thy part, I do wifh thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee fomething.

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 ;-
Religious Canons, civil Laws are cruel;

Then what fhould war be? this fell whore of thine
Hath in her more deftruction than thy sword,
For all her cherubin look.

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
Are drown'd and loft in his calamities.

I have but little gold of late, brave Timon,
The want whereof doth daily make revolt
In my penurious band. I hear'd and griev'd,
How curfed Athens, mindlefs of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,
But for thy fword and fortune, trod upon them—
Tim. I pr'ythee beat thy drum, and get thee gone.
Alc. I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.
Tim. How doft thou pity him, whom thou doft
trouble?

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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
Conqueft,

And, after, Thee, when thou haft conquered!
Alc. Why me, Timon?

Tim. That by killing of villains
Thou waft 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 fome high-vic'd city hang his poison
In the fick air: Let not thy fword skip one,

Pity not honour'd áge for his white beard,
He is an ufurer. Strike me the matron,
It is her habit only that is honeft,

Herfelf's a bawd. Let not the virgin's cheek
Make soft thy trenchant fword; for those milk-paps,
That through the window-lawn bore at men's eyes,
Are not within the leaf of pity writ;

Set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe,
Whofe dimpled fmiles from fools extort their

mercy;

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Think it a baftard, whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat fhall cut,
And mince it fans remorfe. Swear againft objects,
Put armour on thine ears, and on thine eyes;
Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,
Nor fight of prieft in holy veftments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot. There's gold to pay thy foldiers.
Make large confufion; and, thy fury spent,'
Confounded be thyfelf! fpeak not, be gone.
Alc. Haft thou gold yet?

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

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In hollow bones of man, ftrike their sharp fhins,
And mar men's fpurring. Crack the lawyer's voice,
That he may never more falfe Title plead,

Nor found his quillets fhrilly. Hoar the Flamen,
That fcolds 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 forefend,

Smells from the gen'ral weal. Make curl'd-pate ruffians bald,

And let the unfcarr'd braggarts of the war
Derive fome pain from you. Plague all;
That your activity may defeat, and quell
The fource of all erection.-There's more gold.
Do you damn others, and let this damn you,
And ditches grave you all!

[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

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