_Tim_. I dare say you _are_ Gods; that shall not save you. I hate
every one, man or God; and as for this blind fellow, whoever he may
be, I am going to give him one over the head with my spade.

_Pl_. For God's sake, Hermes, let us get out of this! the man is
melancholy-mad, I believe; he will do me a mischief before I get off.

_Her_. Now don't be foolish, Timon; cease overdoing the ill-tempered
boor, hold out your hands, take your luck, and be a rich man again.
Have Athens at your feet, and from your solitary eminence you can
forget ingratitude.

_Tim_. I have no use for you; leave me in peace; my spade is riches
enough for me; for the rest, I am perfectly happy if people will let
me alone.

_Her_. My dear sir--so unsociable?

So stiff and stubborn a reply to Zeus?

A misanthrope you may well be, after the way men have treated you; but
with the Gods so thoughtful for you, you need not be a misotheist.

_Tim_. Very well, Hermes; I am extremely obliged to you and Zeus for
your thoughtfulness--there; but I will not have Plutus.

_Her_. Why, pray?

_Tim_. He brought me countless troubles long ago--put me in the power