Complete Plays, The

by William Shakespeare

  Rotten humidity; below thy sister’s orb

  Infect the air! Twinn’d 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 grise of fortune

  Is smooth’d by that below: the learned pate

  Ducks to the golden fool: all is oblique;

  There’s nothing level in our cursed natures,

  But direct villany. Therefore, be abhorr’d

  All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!

  His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:

  Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots!

  Digging

  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 the 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 wappen’d widow wed again;

  She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores

  Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices

  To the April day again. Come, damned earth,

  Thou common whore of mankind, that put’st odds

  Among the route 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, strong thief,

  When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand.

  Nay, stay thou out for earnest.

  Keeping some gold

  Enter Alcibiades, with drum and fife, in warlike manner; Phrynia and Timandra

  Alcibiades

  What art thou there? speak.

  Timon

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

  For showing me again the eyes of man!

  Alcibiades

  What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee,

  That art thyself a man?

  Timon

  I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.

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

  That I might love thee something.

  Alcibiades

  I know thee well;

  But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange.

  Timon

  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 cherubim look.

  Phrynia

  Thy lips rot off!

  Timon

  I will not kiss thee; then the rot returns

  To thine own lips again.

  Alcibiades

  How came the noble Timon to this change?

  Timon

  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.

  Alcibiades

  Noble Timon,

  What friendship may I do thee?

  Timon

  None, but to

  Maintain my opinion.

  Alcibiades

  What is it, Timon?

  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!

  Alcibiades

  I have heard in some sort of thy miseries.

  Timon

  Thou saw’st them, when I had prosperity.

  Alcibiades

  I see them now; then was a blessed time.

  Timon

  As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots.

  Timandra

  Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world

  Voiced so regardfully?

  Timon

  Art thou Timandra?

  Timandra

  Yes.

  Timon

  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.

  Timandra

  Hang thee, monster!

  Alcibiades

  Pardon him, sweet Timandra; for his wits

  Are drown’d 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,—

  Timon

  I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone.

  Alcibiades

  I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.

  Timon

  How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble?

  I had rather be alone.

  Alcibiades

  Why, fare thee well:

  Here is some gold for thee.

  Timon

  Keep it, I cannot eat it.

  Alcibiades

  When I have laid proud Athens on a heap,—

  Timon

  Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens?

  Alcibiades

  Ay, Timon, and have cause.

  Timon

  The gods confound them all in thy conquest;

  And thee after, when thou hast conquer’d!

  Alcibiades

  Why me, Timon?

  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 honour’d 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;<
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  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 soldiers:

  Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent,

  Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.

  Alcibiades

  Hast thou gold yet? I’ll take the gold thou givest me, Not all thy counsel.

  Timon

  Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven’s curse upon thee!

  Phrynia

  Timandra

  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

  The 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 burthens 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!

  Phrynia

  Timandra

  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 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 curl’d-pate ruffians bald;

  And let the unscarr’d 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!

  Phrynia

  Timandra

  More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon.

  Timon

  More whore, more mischief first; I have given you earnest.

  Alcibiades

  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.

  Alcibiades

  I never did thee harm.

  Timon

  Yes, thou spokest well of me.

  Alcibiades

  Call’st thou that harm?

  Timon

  Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take

  Thy beagles with thee.

  Alcibiades

  We but offend him. Strike!

  Drum beats. Exeunt Alcibiades, Phrynia, and Timandra

  Timon

  That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness,

  Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou,

  Digging

  Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,

  Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,

  Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff’d,

  Engenders the black toad and adder blue,

  The gilded newt and eyeless venom’d 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 ungrateful man, with liquorish draughts

  And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind,

  That from it all consideration slips!

  Enter Apemantus

  More man? plague, plague!

  Apemantus

  I was directed hither: men report

  Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them.

  Timon

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

  Whom I would imitate: consumption catch thee!

  Apemantus

  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 gavest thine ears like tapsters that bid welcome

  To knaves and all approachers: ’tis most just

  That thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again,

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

  Timon

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

  Apemantus

  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 moss’d trees,

  That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels,

  And skip where thou point’st out? will the cold brook,

  Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,

  To cure thy o’er-night’s surfeit? Call the creatures

  Whose naked natures live in an 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 —

  Timon

  A fool of thee: depart.

  Apemantus

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

  Timon

  I hate thee worse.

  Apemantus

  Why?

  Timon

  Thou flatter’st misery.

  Apemantus

  I flatter not; but say thou art a caitiff.

  Timon

  Why dost thou seek me out?

  Apemantus

  To vex thee.

  Timon

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

  Dost please thyself in’t?

  Apemantus

  Ay.

  Timon

  What! a knave too?

  Apemantus

  If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on

  To castigate thy pride, ’twere well: but thou

  Dost it enforcedly; thou’ldst courtier be again,

  Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery

  Outli
ves encertain pomp, is crown’d 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.

  Timon

  Not by his breath that is more miserable.

  Thou art a slave, whom Fortune’s tender arm

  With favour never clasp’d; 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 learn’d

  The icy precepts of respect, but follow’d

  The sugar’d 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, hive 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 flatter’d 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.

  Apemantus

  Art thou proud yet?

  Timon

  Ay, that I am not thee.

  Apemantus

  I, that I was

  No prodigal.

  Timon

  I, that I am one now:

  Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee,

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

  That the whole life of Athens were in this!

  Thus would I eat it.

  Eating a root

  Apemantus

  Here; I will mend thy feast.

  Offering him a root

  Timon

  First mend my company, take away thyself.

  Apemantus

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

  Timon

  ’Tis not well mended so, it is but botch’d; if not, I would it were.

  Apemantus

  What wouldst thou have to Athens?

  Timon

  Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt,

  Tell them there I have gold; look, so I have.

  Apemantus

  Here is no use for gold.

  Timon

  The best and truest;

  For here it sleeps, and does no hired harm.