TIMON.
Were I like thee, I’d throw away myself.
APEMANTUS.
Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself
A madman so long, now a fool. What, think’st
That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,
Will put thy shirt on warm? Will these mossed trees,
That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels
And skip when thou point’st out? Will the cold brook,
Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste
To cure thy o’ernight’s surfeit? Call the creatures
Whose naked natures live in all the spite
Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks,
To the conflicting elements exposed,
Answer mere nature, bid them flatter thee.
O, thou shalt find—
TIMON.
A fool of thee. Depart.
APEMANTUS.
I love thee better now than e’er I did.
TIMON.
I hate thee worse.
APEMANTUS.
Why?
TIMON.
Thou flatter’st misery.
APEMANTUS.
I flatter not, but say thou art a caitiff.
TIMON.
Why dost thou seek me out?
APEMANTUS.
To vex thee.