Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Alc. Alc.
Alc. Pardon him sweet Timandra, for his wits
Alc. Are drown'd and lost in his Calamities.
Alc. I haue but little Gold of late, braue Timon,
Alc. The want whereof, doth dayly make reuolt
Alc. In my penurious Band. I haue heard and greeu'd
Alc. How cursed Athens, mindelesse of thy worth,
Alc. Forgetting thy great deeds, when Neighbour states
Alc. But for thy Sword and Fortune trod vpon them.
Tim. Tim.
Tim. I prythee beate thy Drum, and get thee gone.
Alc. I am thy Friend, and ptty thee deere Timon.
Tim. How doest thou pitty him whom yu dost troble,
Tim. I had rather be alone.
Alc. Why fare thee well:
Alc. Heere is some Gold for thee.