Archid. We can press
Of labourers in the country, men inured
To cold and heat, ten thousand.
Diph. Or, if need be,
Enrol our slaves, lusty and able varlets,
And fit for service.
Cleon. They shall go for me;
I will not pay and fight too.
Cleo. How! your slaves?
O stain of honour!——Once more, sir, your pardon;
And, to their shames, let me deliver what
I know in justice you may speak.
Timol. Most gladly:
I could not wish my thoughts a better organ
Than your tongue, to express them.
Cleo. Are you men!
(For age may qualify, though not excuse,
The backwardness of these,) able young men!
Yet, now your country's liberty's at the stake,
Honour and glorious triumph made the garland
For such as dare deserve them; a rich feast
Prepared by Victory, of immortal viands,
Not for base men, but such as with their swords
Dare force admittance, and will be her guests:
And can you coldly suffer such rewards
To be proposed to labourers and slaves?
While you, that are born noble, to whom these,
Valued at their best rate, are next to horses,
Or other beasts of carriage, cry aim[104]!
Like idle lookers on, till their proud worth
Make them become your masters!
Timol. By my hopes,
There's fire and spirit enough in this to make
Thersites valiant.
Cleo. No; far, far be it from you:
Let these of meaner quality contend
Who can endure most labour; plough the earth,
And think they are rewarded when their toil
Brings home a fruitful harvest to their lords;
Let them prove good artificers, and serve you
For use and ornament, but not presume
To touch at what is noble. If you think them
Unworthy to taste of those cates you feed on,
Or wear such costly garments, will you grant them
The privilege and prerogative of great minds,
Which you were born to? Honour won in war,
And to be styled preservers of their country,
Are titles fit for free and generous spirits,
And not for bondmen. Had I been born a man,
And such ne'er-dying glories made the prize
To bold heroic courage, by Diana,
I would not to my brother, nay, my father,
Be bribed to part with the least piece of honour
I should gain in this action!
Timol. She's inspired,
Or in her speaks the genius of your country,
To fire your blood in her defence: I am rapt
With the imagination. Noble maid,
Timoleon is your soldier, and will sweat
Drops of his best blood, but he will bring home
Triumphant conquest to you. Let me wear
Your colours, lady; and though youthful heats,
That look no further than your outward form,
Are long since buried in me; while I live,
I am a constant lover of your mind,
That does transcend all precedents.
Cleo. 'Tis an honour, [Gives her scarf.
And so I do receive it.