Page 3159 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

And say this man’s a flatterer? If one be, [15]
So are they all, for every grise of fortune
Is smooth’d by that below: the learned pate
Ducks to the golden fool; all’s obliquy;

There’s nothing level in our cursed natures
But direct villainy. Therefore be abhorr’d [20]
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!
His semblable, yea himself, Timon disdains.

Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots.
[Digging]
Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate
With thy most operant poison. What is here? [25]

Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold?
No, gods, I am no idle votarist.
Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of this will make
Black, white; foul, fair; wrong, right;

Base, noble; old, young; coward, valiant. [30]
Ha, you gods! Why this? What this, you gods? Why, this
Will lug your priests and servants from your sides,
Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their heads.

This yellow slave
Will knit and break religions, bless th’accurs’d, [35]
Make the hoar leprosy ador’d, place thieves,
And give them title, knee and approbation

With senators on the bench. This is it
That makes the wappen’d widow wed again:
She whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores [40]
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices

To th’ April day again. Come, damn’d earth,
Thou common whore of mankind, that puts odds
Among the rout of nations, I will make thee
Do thy right nature.

[March afar off]
Ha? A drum? Th’art quick, [45]
But yet I’ll bury thee. Thou’lt go, strong thief,
When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand.

Nay, stay thou out for earnest.
[Keeping some gold]