Timon, or the Misanthrope (6)

Therefore

my wrongs have driven me to this outlying farm, where, dressed in skins, I till the soil as a hired labourer at four obols a day, philosophizing with the solitude and with my pick. By so doing, I expect to gain at least thus much, that I shall no longer see a great many people enjoying undeserved success; for that, certainly, would be more painful. Come then, son of Cronus and Rhea, shake off at length that deep, sound sleep, for you have slumbered longer than Epimenides;[*] fan your thunderbolt into flame or kindle it afresh from Aetna, and make a great blaze, evincing anger worthy of a stalwart and youthful Zeus—unless indeed the tale is true that the Cretans tell about you and your tomb in their island.