ALCIBIADES.
I never did thee harm.
TIMON.
Yes, thou spok’st well of me.
ALCIBIADES.
Call’st thou that harm?
TIMON.
Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take
Thy beagles with thee.
ALCIBIADES.
We but offend him. Strike.
[Drum beats. Exeunt all but Timon.]
TIMON.
That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness,
Should yet be hungry! [He digs.] Common mother, thou,
Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast
Teems and feeds all; whose selfsame mettle
Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed,
Engenders the black toad and adder blue,
The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm,
With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven
Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine:
Yield him who all thy human sons doth hate,
From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!
Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb,
Let it no more bring out ingrateful man.
Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears;
Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face
Hath to the marbled mansion all above
Never presented. O, a root, dear thanks!
Dry up thy marrows, vines and plough-torn leas,
Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts
And morsels unctuous greases his pure mind,
That from it all consideration slips—
Enter Apemantus.
More man? Plague, plague!
APEMANTUS.
I was directed hither. Men report
Thou dost affect my manners and dost use them.