_Timol._ You have not, as good patriots should do, studied The public good, but your particular ends; Factious among yourselves, preferring such To offices and honours, as ne'er read The elements of saving policy, But deeply skill'd in all the principles That usher to destruction. _Leost._ Sharp! _Timag._ The better. _Timol._ Your senate-house, which used not to admit A man, however popular, to stand At the helm of government, whose youth was not Made glorious by action; whose experience, Crown'd with gray hairs, gave warrant to his counsels, Heard and received with reverence; is now fill'd With green heads, that determine of the state Over their cups, or when their sated lusts Afford them leisure; or supplied by those Who, rising from base arts and sordid thrift, Are eminent for their wealth, not for their wisdom: Which is the reason that to hold a place In council, which was once esteem'd an honour, And a reward for virtue, hath quite lost Lustre and reputation, and is made A mercenary purchase. _Timag._ He speaks home. _Leost._ And to the purpose. _Timol._ From whence it proceeds, That the treasure of the city is engross'd By a few private men, the public coffers Hollow with want; and they, that will not spare One talent for the common good, to feed The pride and bravery of their wives, consume, In plate, in jewels, and superfluous slaves, What would maintain an army. _Coris._ Have at us! _Olymp._ We thought we were forgot. _Cleo._ But it appears You will be treated of. _Timol._ Yet, in this plenty, And fat of peace, your young men ne'er were train'd In martial discipline; and your ships unrigg'd Rot in the harbour: no defence prepared, But thought unuseful; as if that the gods, Indulgent to your sloth, had granted you A perpetuity of pride and pleasure, No change fear'd or expected. Now you find That Carthage, looking on your stupid sleeps And dull security, was invited to Invade your territories. _Archid._ You have made us see, sir, To our shame, the country's sickness: now from you, As from a careful and a wise physician, We do expect the cure. _Timol._ Old fester'd sores Must be lanced to the quick, and cauterized; Which borne with patience, after I'll apply Soft unguents. For the maintenance of the war, It is decreed all moneys in the hand Of private men shall instantly be brought To the public treasury. _Timag._ This bites sore. _Cleon._ The cure Is worse than the disease; I'll never yield to 't: What could the enemy, though victorious, Inflict more on us? All that my youth hath toil'd for, Purchased with industry, and preserved with care, Forced from me in a moment! _Diph._ This rough course Will never be allow'd of.