Timon monologue (Act 4) — Timon of Athens

That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness, Should yet be hungry! [_He digs_.] Common mother, thou, Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast Teems and feeds all; whose selfsame mettle Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed, Engenders the black toad and adder blue, The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm, With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine: Yield him who all thy human sons doth hate, From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root! Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb, Let it no more bring out ingrateful man. Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears; Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face Hath to the marbled mansion all above Never presented. O, a root, dear thanks! Dry up thy marrows, vines and plough-torn leas, Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts And morsels unctuous greases his pure mind, That from it all consideration slips—