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.
Timol. O blind men!
If you refuse the first means that is offer'd
To give you health, no hope's left to recover
Your desperate sickness. Do you prize your muck
Above your liberties? and rather choose
To be made bondmen, than to part with that
To which already you are slaves? Or can it
Be probable, in your flattering apprehensions,
You can capitulate with the conquerors,
And keep that yours which they come to possess,
And, while you kneel in vain, will ravish from you?
—But take your own ways; brood upon your gold.
Sacrifice to your idol, and preserve
The prey entire, and merit the report
Of careful stewards: yield a just account
To your proud masters, who, with whips of iron,
Will force you to give up what you conceal,
Or tear it from your throats: adorn your walls
With Persian hangings wrought of gold and pearl;
Cover the floors on which they are to tread
With costly Median silks; perfume the rooms
With cassia and amber, where they are
To feast and revel; while, like servile grooms,
You wait upon their trenchers: feed their eyes
With massy plate, until your cupboards crack
With the weight that they sustain; and, to perfect
Their entertainment, offer up your sons
And able men for slaves; while you, that are
Unfit for labour, are spurn'd out to starve,
Unpitied, in some desert, no friend by,
Whose sorrow may spare one compassionate tear
In the remembrance of what once you were.
Leost. The blood turns.
Timag. Observe how old Cleon shakes,
As if in picture he had shown him what
He was to suffer.
Coris. I am sick: the man
Speaks poniards and diseases.
Olymp. O my doctor!
I never shall recover.
Cleo. [coming forward.] If a virgin,
Whose speech was ever yet usher'd with fear,
One knowing modesty and humble silence
To be the choicest ornaments of our sex,
In the presence of so many reverend men
Struck dumb with terror and astonishment,
Presume to clothe her thought in vocal sounds,
Let her find pardon. First to you, great sir,
A bashful maid's thanks, and her zealous prayers
Wing'd with pure innocence, bearing them to heaven,
For all prosperity that the gods can give
To one whose piety must exact their care,
Thus low I offer.