Timon the Misanthrope (44-46)

Be the name he loves Misanthropus, and the marks whereby he may be known peevishness and spleen, wrath and rudeness and abhorrence. If ever one burning to death should call for help against the flames, let me help—with pitch and oil. If another be swept past me by a winter torrent, and stretch out his hands for aid, then let mine press him down head under, that he never rise again. So shall they receive as they have given. Mover of this resolution—Timon, son of Echecratides of Collytus. Presiding officer—the same Timon. The ayes have it. Let it be law, and duly observed.

All the same, I would give a good deal to have the fact of my enormous wealth generally known; they would all be fit to hang themselves over it.... Why, whatis this? Well, that is quick work. Here they come running from every point of the compass, all dusty and panting; they have smelt out the gold somehow or other. Now, shall I get on top of this knoll, keep up a galling fire of stones from my point of vantage, and get rid of them that way? Or shall I make an exception to my law by parleying with them for once? contempt might hit harder than stones. Yes, I think that is better; I will stay where I am, and receive them. Let us see, who is this in front? Ah, Gnathonides the flatterer; when I asked an alms of him

Gnathonides What did I tell them?—Timon was too good a man to be abandoned by Providence. How are you, Timon? as good-looking and good-tempered, as good a fellow, as ever?

Timon And you, Gnathonides, still teaching vultures rapacity, and men cunning?

Gnathonides Ah, he always liked his little joke. But where do you dine? I have brought a new song with me, a march out of the last musical thing on.

Timon It will be a funeral march, then, and a very touching one, with spade obbligato.

Gnathonides What means this? This is assault, Timon; just let me find a witness! ... Oh, my God, my God!... I'll have you before the Areopagus for assault and battery.

Timon You’d better not wait much longer, or you'll have to make it murder.

Gnathonides Mercy, mercy! ..- Now, a little gold ointment to heal the wound; it is a first-rate styptic.

Timon What! you won’t go, won’t you?

Gnathonides Oh, I am going. But you shall repent this. Alas, so genial once, and now so rude!

Timon Now who is this with the bald crown?