Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold?

No, Gods, I am no idle votarist.

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 servants 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 leprosy 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-house, 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'st 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, (strong thief) When gouty keepers of thee cannot ftand.

Nay, stay thou out for earnest.

SCENE

[Keeping fome gold.

IV.

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

Alc.

HAT art thou there? fpeak.

Tim. A beast, as thou art. Cankers gnaw

thy heart,

For shewing me again the eyes of man!

Alc. What is thy name? is man so hateful to thee,

That art thyself a man?

cel

Tim. * I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.

For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.

Alc. I know thee well :

But in thy fortunes am unlearn'd, and strange.

Tim. I know thee too, and more than that I know

thee,

dt I not defire to know. Follow thy drum,

ds 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 cherubin look.

Phry. Thy lips rot off!

Tim. I will not kiss 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 promise, the Gods plague thee, for thou art a man: if thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a man!

Alc. I've heard in fome fort of thy miseries. Tim. Thou faw'st them when I had profperity. Alc. I see 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 so regardfully?

* I am Misanthropos,-] Moliere has Wrote a fine Comedy, called from the Hero of the Piece, The Misanthrope, which our Wycherley has imitated, calling it, The Plain-dealer. Now, in fact, it happens, that Moliere's Misanthrope is but a Plain-dealer, and Wycherley's Plain-dealer is a direct Misanthrope.

Warburton.
Tim.

Tim. Art thou Timandra?

Timan. Yes.

Tim. Be a whore still: they love thee not, that

ufe thee:

Give them diseases, leaving with thee their luft:
Make use of thy falt hours, season the flaves
For tubs and baths, bring down the rose-cheek'd youth
To th' Tub-fast, and the diet.

Timan. Hang thee, monster!

Alc. Pardon him, fweet 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 hear'd and griev'd, How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth, Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states, But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon themTim. 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?

I'ad rather be alone.

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 heap

Tim. 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 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 fome high-vic'd city hang his poifon
In the fick air: Let not thy fword skip one,

Pity not honour'd age for his white beard,
He is an ufurer. Strike me the matron,
It is her habit only that is honeft,
Herself's a bawd. Let not the virgin's cheek
Make soft thy trenchant sword; 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,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools extort their

mercy;

Think it a bastard, whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects, Put armour on thine ears, and on thine eyes; Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes, at Nor fight of priest in holy vestments bleeding, tid - Shall pierce a jot. There's gold to pay thy foldiers. Make large confufion; and, thy fury spent, Confounded be thyself! speak not, be gone. Alc. Haft thou gold yet?

d

I'll take the gold thou giv'st me, not thy counsel. Tim. Dost thou, or dost thou not, heav'n's curse upon thee!

Both. Give us fome gold, good Timon: hast thou

more?

Tim. Enough to make a whore forswear her trade, And to make whole a bawd. Hold up, you fluts, Your aprons mountant; you're not othable, Although, I know, you'll swear; terribly swear Into strong shudders, and to heav'nly agues, Th' 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 turn-coats: yet may your pains fix

months

Be quite contrary. Make false 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 still:
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 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 found 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 forefend,

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

ruffians bald,

And let the unscarr'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 mischief, first; I've given

you earnest.

Alc. Strike up the drum tow'rds Athens; farewel,

Timon:

If I thrive well, I'll visit thee again.

Tim. If I hope well, I'll never fee thee more.

Alc. I never did thee harm.

Tim. Yes, thou spok'st well of me.

Alc. Call'ft thou that harm?

Tím. Men daily find it. Get thee hence, away.

And take thy beagles with thee.

Alc. We but offend him: strike.

[Exeunt Alcibiad. Phryn. and Timand.

SCENE