_Her_. Nothing like lifting up your voice, making yourself a nuisance,
and showing a bold front; it is equally effective whether you are
pleading with juries or deities. Here is Timon developing from pauper
to millionaire, just because his prayer was loud and free enough to
startle Zeus; if he had dug quietly with his face to his work, he
might have dug to all eternity, for any notice he would have got.

_Pl_. Well, Zeus, I am not going to him.

_Zeus_. Your reason, good Plutus; have I not told you to go?

_Pl_. Good God! why, he insulted me, threw me about, dismembered me--
me, his old family friend--and practically pitchforked me out of the
house; he could not have been in a greater hurry to be rid of me if I
had been a live coal in his hand. What, go there again, to be
transferred to toadies and flatterers and harlots? No, no, Zeus; send
me to people who will appreciate the gift, take care of me, value and
cherish me. Let these gulls consort with the poverty which they prefer
to me; she will find them a smock-frock and a spade, and they can be
thankful for a miserable pittance of sixpence a day, these reckless
squanderers of 1,000 pound presents.

_Zeus_. Ah, Timon will not treat you that way again. If his loins are
not of cast iron, his spade-work will have taught him a thing or two
about your superiority to poverty. You are so particular, you know;
now, you are finding fault with Timon for opening the door to you and
letting you wander at your own sweet will, instead of keeping you in
jealous seclusion. Yesterday it was another story: you were imprisoned
by rich men under bolts and locks and seals, and never allowed a