Page 3167 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

Never presented. O, a root; dear thanks!
Dry up thy marrows, vines and plough-torn leas, [195]
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 [200]

Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them.

TIMON

’Tis then because thou dost not keep a dog
Whom I would imitate. Consumption catch thee!

APEMANTUS
This is in thee a nature but infected,
A poor unmanly melancholy sprung [205]
From change of future. Why this spade? This place?

This slave-like habit, and these looks of care?
Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft,
Hug their diseas’d perfumes, and have forgot

That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods [210]
By putting on the cunning of a carper.
Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive
By that which has undone thee. Hinge thy knee,
And let his very breath whom thou’lt observe

Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain, [215]
And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus.
Thou gav’st thine ears, like tapsters that bade welcome,

To knaves, and all approachers. ’Tis most just
That thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again,
Rascals should have’t. Do not assume my likeness. [220]

TIMON
Were I like thee I’d throw away myself.