Before the walls of Athens.
(Alcibiades; First Senator; First Senator; Soldier)
Alcibiades and is army arrive before Athens, and he gives them one last chance to surrender. They plead with him to be merciful and agree to yield if he will promise to. Alcibiades agrees, promising to punish only his own enemies and Timon’s, and letting the Athenians decide who the latter are. The soldier brings the news that Timon has died, leaving one last curse on his grave. Alcibiades grieves. (95 lines)
Trumpets sound. Enter Alcibiades with his powers before Athens.
Sound to this coward and lascivious town
Our terrible approach.
Sounds a parley.
The Senators appear upon the walls.
Till now you have gone on and fill’d the time
With all licentious measure, making your wills
The scope of justice; till now myself and such
As slept within the shadow of your power
Have wander’d with our travers’d arms, and breath’d
Our sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush,
When crouching marrow in the bearer strong
Cries (of itself) “No more!” Now breathless wrong
Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease,
And pursy insolence shall break his wind
With fear and horrid flight.
Noble and young—
When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit,
Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear,
We sent to thee to give thy rages balm,
To wipe out our ingratitude with loves
Above their quantity.
So did we woo
Transformed Timon to our city’s love
By humble message and by promis’d means.
We were not all unkind, nor all deserve
The common stroke of war.
These walls of ours
Were not erected by their hands from whom
You have receiv’d your grief; nor are they such
That these great tow’rs, trophies, and schools should fall
For private faults in them.
Nor are they living
Who were the motives that you first went out;
Shame, that they wanted cunning in excess,
Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord,
Into our city with thy banners spread;
By decimation, and a tithed death,
If thy revenges hunger for that food
Which nature loathes, take thou the destin’d tenth,
And by the hazard of the spotted die
Let die the spotted.
All have not offended;
For those that were, it is not square to take
On those that are, revenge; crimes, like lands,
Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman,
Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage;
Spare thy Athenian cradle and those kin
Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall
With those that have offended; like a shepherd,
Approach the fold and cull th’ infected forth,
But kill not all together.
What thou wilt,
Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile
Than hew to’t with thy sword.
Set but thy foot
Against our rampir’d gates and they shall ope,
So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before,
To say thou’t enter friendly.
Throw thy glove,
Or any token of thine honor else,
That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress
And not as our confusion, all thy powers
Shall make their harbor 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 own
Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof
Fall, and no more; and to atone your fears
With my more noble meaning, not a man
Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream
Of regular justice in your city’s bounds,
But shall be remedied to your public laws
At heaviest answer.
’Tis most nobly spoken.
Descend, and keep your words.
The Senators descend and open the gates.
Enter Soldier as a messenger.
My noble general, Timon is dead,
Entomb’d upon the very hem o’ th’ sea,
And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which
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 caitiffs left!
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 brains’ flow, and those our droplets which
From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit
Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye
On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead
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 other’s leech.
Let our drums strike.