Timon the Misanthrope (31-35)

Ah, here is Timon close to us; what a steep stony little plot he has got to dig! Good gracious, I see Poverty and Toil in attendance, Endurance, Wisdom, Courage, and Hunger’s whole company in full force—much more efficient than your guards, Plutus.

Oh dear, let us make the best of our way home, Hermes. We shall never produce any impression on a man surrounded by such troops.

Zeus thought otherwise; so no cowardice.

Slayer of Argus, whither away, you two hand in hand?

Zeus has sent us to Timon here,

Now? What has Plutus todo with Timon now? I found him suffering under Luxury’s treatment, put him in the charge of Wisdom and Toil (whom you see here), and made a good worthy man of him. Do you take me for such a contemptible helpless creature that you can rob me of my little all? have I perfected him in virtue, only to see Plutus take him, trust him to Insolence and Arrogance, make him as soft and limp and silly as before, and return him to me a worn-out rag again?

It is Zeus’s will.

I am off, then. Toil, Wisdom, and the rest of you, quick march! Well, he will realize his loss before long; he had a good helpmeet in me, and a true teacher; with me he was healthy in body and vigorous in spirit; he lived the life of a man, and could be independent, and see the thousand and one needless refinements in all their absurdity.

There they go, Plutus; let us come to him.

Who are you, villains? What do you want here, interrupting a hired labourer? You shall have something to take with you, confound you all! These clods and stones shall provide you with a broken head or two.

Stop, Timon, don’t throw. We are not men; I am Hermes, and this is Plutus; Zeus has sent us in answer to your prayers. So knock off work, take your fortune, and much good may it do you!

I dare say you are Gods; that shall not save you. I hate every one, man or God; and as for this blind fellow, whoever he may be, I am going to give him one over the head with my spade.

For God’s sake, Hermes, let us get out of this! the man is melancholy-mad, I believe; he will do me a mischief before I get off.