Alcib.
“Who has wrong'd you?
“And why these tears? Speak, Lady, I'm no flatterer:
“A plain blunt man, who bears you more good will
“Than he will tell of; courts no wealthy friend,
“And dares to own a poor one. Why do you shake
“Your head thus? Where's your father; is all well?
“O my prophetick soul!

Evan.
“Where is my father?
“As low as misery and want can lay him.

Alcib.
“Now the Gods comfort him! Spare your sad story,

“I know it all. I am a man that carry
“My fortune by my side; this sword, tho' poor,
“Has made men rich: the senate are my debtors;
“Thus arm'd, I'll strait before 'em. When their fleet
“Perish'd at Ægos, and the city saw
“The Spartan standard on their frighted walls,
“What cou'd have sav'd the state, and bought them peace,
“Had not Lysander's mercenary palm
“Been fill'd with Timon's gold? shall Timon then
“Want that base dirt, while their cramm'd coffers stand
“Up to the lips in coin? the Gods forbid it.

Evan.
Alas, the Senate have been tried already;
They've all been touch'd, and all are found base metal,
For they have all denied him.

Alcib.
“Gods, I thank you,
“Since 'tis your pleasure to allow such baseness,
“For that this hour shall bring me into trial.
“Adversity's dread fan shall now divide
“The base light chaff, and give it to the winds:
“Yet Timon shall confess he has a friend.
“Go then, dear maid, meet this ingrateful time
“With constant virtue, and becoming scorn;
“Go to thy father, tell him I am gone
“To this vile Senate, who deny his wants;
“And say, when I have chain'd those wakeful dragons,
“I'll shake their rich, and golden clusters down,
“Or tear up roots and all. [Exit.

Evan.
“The Gods preserve thee,
“For in thy joint, and corporate perfections
“Each great Divinity has stampt his own;
“All Mars's valour, all Apollo's grace,
“The bloom of Bacchus, and the port of Jove. [Exit Evanthe.

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