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So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before,
Throw thy glove,
Then there's my glove;
'Tis most nobly spoken. Alcib. Descend, and keep your words.
The Senators descend, and
Enter a Soldier.
Sol. My noble general, Timon is dead; Entomb'd
very hem o’the sea: And, on his grave-stone, this insculpture; which With wax I brought away, whose soft impression Interprets for my poor ignorance. Alcib. [Reads.] Here lies a wretched corse, of
wretched soul bereft: Seek not my name: A plague consume you wicked
Here lie I Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate: Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass, and stay not here
thy gait. These well express in thee thy latter spirits: Though thou abhorr’dst in us our human griefs, Scorn'dst our brain's flow, and those our droplets
which From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead Is noble Timon; of whose memory Hereafter more.—Bring me into your city, And I will use the olive with my sword: Make war breed peace; make peace stint war;
make each Prescribe to other, as each other's leech. Let our drums strike.