第21章 The woods near the sea-shore. BeforeTIMON'S cave(3

Yet may your pains six months 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! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. Well, more gold. What then? Believe't that we'll do anything 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 AND 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 spok'st 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 all but TIMON 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 th' abhorred births below crisp heaven Whereon Hyperion's quick'ning 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, andplough-torn leas, Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind, That from it all consideration slips-Enter APEMANTUS