“Lips, let sour words go by and language end:What is amiss plague and infection mend!Graves only be men's works and death their gain!Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign.”

“The lion-as proud as the diamond bright,Though the spell may be clouding that radiant light-in the death of the sun what's amiss will then mend, while the raven is dying discloses the end.”

“Here lies awretched corse, of wretched soul bereft:Seek not my name: a plague consume you wickedcaitiffs left!Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate:Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass and staynot here thy gait.”

“I know this little thinga myriad of men will save.Oh, death, where is thy sting,Thy victory, oh grave?”

“Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.”

“There are three lessons I would write-Three words, as with a burning pen, In tracings of eternal light,Upon the heart of men.Have hope! though clouds environ round,And gladness hides her face in scorn,Put thou the shadow from thy brow,No night but hath its morn.Have love! not love alone for one, But man as man thy brother call,And scatter like the circling sun,Thy charities on all.”