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Give us some gold, good Timon

Phrynia and Timandra
Give us some gold, good Timon. Hast thou more?
Enough to make a whore forswear her trade,
And to make whores a bawd. Hold up, you sluts,
Your aprons mountant. 

Be whores still.
And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you,
Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up.

 (He begins throwing gold into their aprons.)
You are not oathable,
Although I know you’ll swear—terribly swear
Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues
Th’ immortal gods that hear you. Spare your oaths.
I’ll trust to your conditions. Be whores still.
And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you,
Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up.
Let your close fire predominate his smoke,
And be no turncoats. Yet may your pains six months
Be quite contrary. And thatch your poor thin roofs
With burdens of the dead—some that were hanged,
No matter; wear them, betray with them. Whore still.
Paint till a horse may mire upon your face.
A pox of wrinkles!
Phrynia And Timandra
Well, more gold. What then?
Believe ’t that we’ll do anything for gold.
Consumptions sow
In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins,
And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer’s voice,
That he may never more false title plead
Nor sound his quillets shrilly. Hoar the flamen,
That scolds against the quality of flesh
And not believes himself. Down with the nose—
Down with it flat, take the bridge quite away—
Of him that, his particular to foresee,
Smells from the general weal. Make curled-pate ruffians bald,
And let the unscarred braggarts of the war
Derive some pain from you. Plague all,
That your activity may defeat and quell
The source of all erection. There’s more gold.
Do you damn others, and let this damn you,
And ditches grave you all!
Phrynia and Timandra
More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon.
More whore, more mischief first! I have given you earnest.
Strike up the drum towards Athens.—Farewell, Timon.
If I thrive well, I’ll visit thee again.
If I hope well, I’ll never see thee more.

Act 4
Scene 3
Line 149

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