Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Tim. And thee after, when thou hast Conquer'd.
Alc. Alc.
Alc. Why me, Timon?
Tim. Tim.
Tim. That by killing of Villaines
Tim. Thou was't borne to conquer my Country.
Tim. Put vp thy Gold. Go on, heeres Gold, go on;
Tim. Be as a Plannetary plague, when Ioue
Tim. Will o're some high‑Vic'd City, hang his poyson
Tim. In the sicke ayre: let not thy sword skip one:
Tim. Pitty not honour'd Age for his white Beard,
Tim. He is an Vsurer. Strike me the counterfet Matron,
Tim. It is her habite onely, that is honest,
Tim. Her selfe's a Bawd. Let not the Virgins cheeke
Tim. Make soft thy trenchant Sword: for those Milke pappes
Tim. That through the window Barne bore at mens eyes,
Tim. Are not within the Leafe of pitty writ,
Tim. But set them down horrible Traitors. Spare not the Bbe
Tim. Whose dimpled smiles from Fooles exhaust their mercy;
Tim. Thinke it a Bastard, whom the Oracle