Page 3159 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3
P. 3159

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]
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