Who were the motives that you first went out,
(Shame that they wanted, cunning in excesse)
Hath broke their hearts. March, Noble Lord,
Into our City with thy Banners spred,
By decimation and a tythed death;

If thy Revenges hunger for that Food

Which Nature loathes, take thou the destin'd tenth,
And by the hazard of the spotted dye,

Let dye the spotted.

I

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 deere Countryman,
Bring in thy rankes, 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 Shepheard,
Approach the Fold, and cull th'infected forth,
But kill not altogether.

Thou rather shalt inforce it with thy smile,
Then hew too't, with thy Sword.

1

Set but thy foot

Against our rampyr'd gates, and they shall ope:

So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before,

To say thou't enter Friendly.

2

Throw thy Glove,

Or any Token of thine Honour else,

That thou wilt use the warres as thy redresse,
And not as our Confusion: All thy Powers
Shall make their harbour in our Towne, till wee
Have seal'd thy full desire.

Alc.

Then there's my Glove,

Desend and open your uncharged Ports,

Those Enemies of Timons, and mine owne

Whom you your selves shall set out for reproofe,
Fall and no more; and to attone your feares
With my more Noble meaning, not a man
Shall passe his quarter, or offend the streame
Of Regular Justice in your Citties bounds,
But shall be remedied to your publique Lawes
At heaviest answer.

Mes. My Noble Generall, Timon is dead,
Entomb'd upon the very hemme o'th'Sea,
And on his Gravestone, this Insculpture which
With wax I brought away: whose soft Impression
Interprets for my poore ignorance.

Alcibiades reades the Epitaph.

Heere lies a wretched Coarse, of wretched Soule bereft,
Seek not my name, A Plague consume you, wicked Caitifs left:
Heere lye I Timon, who alive, all living men did hate,

Passe by, and curse thy fill, but passe and stay not here thy gate.

These well expresse in thee thy latter spirits:

Though thou abhorrd'st in us our humane griefes,

Scornd'st our Braines flow, and those our droplets, which

From niggard Nature fall; yet Rich Conceit

Taught thee to make vast Neptune weepe for aye

On thy low Grave, on faults forgiven. Dead

Is noble Timon, of whose Memorie

Heereafter more. Bring me into your Citie,
And I will use the Olive, with my Sword:

Make war breed peace; make peace stint war, make each
Prescribe to other, as each others Leach.

Let our Drummes strike.

Exeunt.