ALCIBIADES.
I am thy friend and pity thee, dear Timon.
TIMON.
How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble?
I had rather be alone.
ALCIBIADES.
Why, fare thee well.
Here is some gold for thee.
TIMON.
Keep it, I cannot eat it.
ALCIBIADES.
When I have laid proud Athens on a heap—
TIMON.
Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens?
ALCIBIADES.
Ay, Timon, and have cause.
TIMON.
The gods confound them all in thy conquest,
And thee after, when thou hast conquered!
ALCIBIADES.
Why me, Timon?
TIMON.
That by killing of villains
Thou wast born to conquer my country.
Put up thy gold. Go on, here’s gold, go on.
Be as a planetary plague when Jove
Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison
In the sick air. Let not thy sword skip one.
Pity not honoured age for his white beard;
He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron;
It is her habit only that is honest,
Herself’s a bawd. Let not the virgin’s cheek
Make soft thy trenchant sword, for those milk paps
That through the window-bars bore at men’s eyes,
Are not within the leaf of pity writ,
But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Think it a bastard whom the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects;
Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes,
Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,
Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot. There’s gold to pay thy soldiers.
Make large confusion and, thy fury spent,
Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.