Page 3158 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

But only painted like his varnish’d friends?
Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart,
Undone by goodness; strange, unusual blood,
When man’s worst sin is he does too much good!

Who then dares to be half so kind again? [40]
For bounty, that makes gods, do still mar men.
My dearest lord, bless’d to be most accurs’d,
Rich only to be wretched − thy great fortunes

Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord,
He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat [45]
Of monstrous friends;
Nor has he with him to supply his life,

Or that which can command it.
I’ll follow and enquire him out.
I’ll ever serve his mind, with my best will; [50]
Whilst I have gold I’ll be his steward still.

[Exit]

Scene III IT

Enter Timon in the Woods.

TIMON
O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth

Rotten humidity; below thy sister’s orb
Infect the air! Twinn’d brothers of one womb,
Whose procreation, residence and birth
Scarce is dividant − touch them with several fortunes, [5]

The greater scorns the lesser. Not nature,
To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune,
But by contempt of nature.
Raise me this beggar, and deny’t that lord,

The senators shall bear contempt hereditary, [10]
The beggar native honour.
It is the pasture lards the brother’s sides,
The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares,

In purity of manhood stand upright,