Throw thy glove,
Or any token of thine honour else,
That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress
And not as
our confusion, all thy powers
Shall make their harbour in our town, till we
Have seal'd thy full desire.
Then there's my glove;
Descend, and open your uncharged ports:
Those enemies of Timon's and mine
Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof
Fall and no more: and, to atone your fears
more noble meaning, not a man
Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream
Of regular justice in your
But shall be render'd to your public laws
At heaviest answer.
'Tis most nobly spoken.
Descend, and keep your words.
The Senators descend, and open the gates
My noble general, Timon is dead;
Entomb'd upon the very hem o' the sea;
And on his grave-stone this
With wax I brought away, whose soft impression
Interprets for my poor ignorance.
[Reads the epitaph] 'Here lies a
wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft:
Seek not my name: a plague
consume you wicked
Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate:
Pass by and curse
thy fill, but pass and stay
not here thy gait.'
These well express in thee thy latter spirits:
Though thou abhorr'dst
in us our human griefs,
Scorn'dst our brain's flow and those our
From niggard nature fall,
yet rich conceit
Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye
On thy low grave, on faults forgiven.
Is noble Timon: of whose memory
Hereafter more. Bring me into your city,
And I will use the olive
with my sword,
Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make each
Prescribe to other as each
Let our drums strike.
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