TIMON. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity, below thy sister’s orb Infect the air! Twinned 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 grece of fortune Is smoothed by that below. The learned pate Ducks to the golden fool. All’s obliquy. There’s nothing level in our cursed natures But direct villainy. Therefore be abhorred All feasts, societies, and throngs of men! His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains. Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots! [_Digs in the earth._] 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 th’ 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 wappened widow wed again; She whom the spittle-house and ulcerous sores Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices To th’ April day again. Come, damned earth, Thou common whore of mankind, that puts 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 stand. Nay, stay thou out for earnest. [_Keeping some gold._] Enter Alcibiades with drum and fife, in warlike manner, and 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 unlearned 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 cherubin look. PHRYNIA. Thy lips rot off!