Think it a bastard, whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse:1 swear against objects; ? Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes; Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes, Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent, Not all thy counsel. Timon. Dost thou, or dost thou not, Heaven's curse upon thee! Phry. and Timan. Give us some gold, good Timon. Hast thou more? Timon. 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, oaths; I'll trust to your conditions.3 Be whores still; 1 Without pity. 2 i. e. of compassion. 3 Vocation, And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, months, Yet may your pains, six Be quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin roofs With burdens of the dead ;- —some that were hang'd, No matter;-wear them, betray with them: whore still; Paint till a horse may mire upon your face: A pox of wrinkles! Phry. and Timan. Well, more gold ;—what then? Believe 't, that we 'll do any thing for gold. Timon. 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 quillets1 shrilly: hoar 2 the flamen, And not believes himself: down with the nose, Of him, that his particular to foresee, Smells from the general weal: 3 make curl'd-pate ruffians bald; And let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war 1 Subtilties. 2 Afflict with hoary leprosy. 3 i. e. provides for his private advantage, for which he leaves the right scent of public good. The source of all erection :—there's more gold. Phry. and Timan. More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon. Timon. More whore, more mischief first: I have given you earnest. Alc. Strike up the drum towards Athens. Farewell, Timon: If I thrive well, I'll visit thee again. Timon. If I hope well, I'll never see thee more. Alc. I never did thee harm. Timon. Yes, thou spokest well of me. Timon. That Nature, being sick of man's unkind ness, Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou, Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast, 1 Entomb. 2 The serpent called the blind worm. |