Flinty mankind; whofe eyes do never give But or through luft, or laughter. Pity's fleeping; Strange times! that weep with laughing, not with weeping. Flav. I beg of you to know me, good my Lord, T'accept my grief, and, whilft this poor wealth lafts, To entertain me as your fteward still. Tim. Had I a steward So true, fo juft, and now fo comfortable? Forgive my gen❜ral and exceptlefs rafhness, How fain would I have hated all mankind, Methinks, thou art more honeft now, than wife; Thou might'ft have fooner got another fervice: Upon their firft Lord's neck. But tell me true, A ufuring kindness, as rich men deal gifts, Flav. No, my moft worthy mafter, (in whofe breast Doubt and fufpect, alas, are plac'd too late,) You should have fear'd falfe times, when you did feaft; Sufpect ftill comes, where an eftate is least. That which I fhew, heav'n knows, is merely love, Duty, and zeal, to your unmatched mind, Care of your food and living: and, believe it, For any benefit that points to me Either in hope, or prefent, I'd exchange For this one wish, that you had power and wealth Tim. Look thee, 'tis fo; thou fingly honeft man, Here, take; the gods out of my mifery Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy : But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone, And fo farewel, and thrive. Flav. O, let me stay, and comfort you, my master. Stay not, but fly, whilft thou art bleft and free; Enter Poet and Painter. [Exeunt feverally. Pain. As I took note of the place, it can't be far where he abides. Poet. What's to be thought of him? does the rumour hold for true, that he's fo full of gold? Pain. Certain. Alcibiades reports it: Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him: he likewife enrich'd poor ftragling foldiers with great quantity. 'Tis faid, he gave his fteward a mighty fum. Poet. Then this breaking of his has been but a tryal for his friends? Pain. Nothing elfe: you fhall fee him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the higheft. Therefore, 'tis not amifs, we tender our loves to him, in this fuppos'd diftrefs of his: it will fhew honeftly in us, and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travel for, if it be a juft and true report that goes of his having. Poet. What have you now to prefent unto him? Pain. Nothing at this time but my vifitation: only I will promise him an excellent piece. Poet. I muft ferve him fo too; tell him of an intent that's coming toward him. Pain. Good as the beft: Promifing is the very air o' th' time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performánce is ever the duller for his act, and, but in the plainer plainer and fimpler kind of people, the deed is quite out of ufe. To promife, is moft courtly, and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or teftament, which argues a great ficknefs in his judgment that makes it. Re enter Timon from his cave, unseen. Tim. Excellent workman! thou canst not paint a man fo bad as thyfe f. Poet. I am thinking, what I fhall fay I have provided for him: it must be a perfonating of himself; a fatire against the foftnefs of profperity, with a difcovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth ard opulency. Tim. Muft thou needs ftard for a villain in thine own work? wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? do fo, I have gold for thee. Poet. Nay, let's seek him. Then do we fin against our own estate, When we may profit meet, and come too late. Poet. While the day ferves, before black-corner'd night, (35) Find what thou want'ft, by free and offer'd light. Tim. I'll meet you at the turn What a god's gold, that he is worshipped In bafer temples, than where fwine do feed! 'Tis thou that rigg'it the bark, and plow'ft the wave, (36) Settleft admired rev'rence in a flave; To thee be worship, and thy faints for aye Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey! 'Tis fit I meet them. Poet. Hail! worthy Timon. Pain. Our late noble mafter. (35) While the day ferves, &c.] This couplet in all the editions is placed to the painter, but, as it is in rhyme, and a fequel of the fentiment begun by the poet, I have made no fcruple to afcribe it to him. (36) 'Tis thou that rigg 'ft the bark, and plow'ft the foam, Settleft admired rev'rence in a flave,] As both the couplet preceding, and following this, are in rhyme, am very apt to fufpect, the rhyme is difmounted here by an accidental corruption; and therefore have ventur'd to replace wave in the room of foam. Tim. Have I once liv'd to fee two honeft men ? Poet. Sir, having often of your bounty tafted, Whofe ftar-like noblenefs gave life and influence 1 Tim. Let it go naked, men may fee't the better: (37) You that are honeft, by being what you are, Make them beft feen and known. Pain. He, and myself, Have travell'd in the great shower of your gifts, Tim. Ay, you're honest men. Patn. We're hither come to offer you our service. Tim. Most honeft men! why, how fhall I requite you? Can you eat roots, and drink cold water? no. Both. What we can do, we'll do, to do you fervice. Tim. Y'are honeft men ; you've heard, that I have gold; I'm fure, you have; fpeak truth, y' are honeft men. Pain. So it is faid, my noble Lord, but therefore Came not my friend, nor I, Tim. Good honeft man; thou draw'ft a counterfeit Beft in all Athens; thou'rt, indeed, the beft; Thou counterfeit'ft most lively. Pain. So, fo, my Lord. (37) Let it go, naked men may fee't the better;] Thus has this paf fage been ftupidly pointed thro' all the editions, as if naked men could fee better than men in their cloaths. I think verily, if there were any room to credit the experiment, fuch editors ought to go naked for the improvement of their eye-fights. But, perhaps, they have as little faith as judgment in their own readings. The poet, in the preceding fpeech haranguing on the ingratitude of Timon's falfe friends, fays, he cannot cover the monftroufness of it with any fize of words; to which Timon, as I have rectified the pointing, very aptly replies; Let it go naked, -men may fee't the better. So, our poet in his Much Ado about Nothing. Why feekft thou then to cover with excufe Tim Tim. E'en fo, Sir, as I fay-And for thy fiction, But for all this, my honeft-natur'd friends, Both. Befeech your honour Tim. You'll take it ill. Both. Moft thankfully, my Lord. Tim. Will you, indeed ? Both. Doubt it not, worthy Lord. Tim. There's ne'er a one of you but trufts a knave, That mightily deceives you. Both. Do we, my Lord? Tim. Ay, and you hear him cogg, fee him diffemble, Know his grofs patchery, love him, and feed him; Keep in your bofom, yet remain affur'd, That he's a made-up villain. Pain. I know none fuch, my Lord. Poet. Nor I. Tim. Look you, I love you well, I'll give you gold, Rid me thefe villains from your companies; Hang them, or flab them, drown them in a draught, Both. Name them, my Lord, let's know them. Yet an arch villain keeps him company. If where thou art, two villains fhall not be, [To the Painter. Hence, pack, there's gold; ye came for gold, ye flaves; Out, rafcal dogs! Enter |