T'accept my grief, and whilft this poor wealth lafts, Tim. Had I a steward So true, fo juft, and now fo comfortable? Forgive my gen'ral and exceptlefs rafhness, Methinks thou art more honeft now than wife : Thou might't have fooner got another service: Upon their firft Lord's neck. But tell me true, An ufuring kindness, as rich men deal gifts, did feaft; i Flav. No, my moft worthy mafter, (in whofe breaft Either in hope, or prefent, I'd exchange it Tim. Look thee, 'tis fo; thou fingly honeft man, Have fent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy: Ere Ere thou relieve the beggar. Give to dogs What thou deny'st to men. Let prifons fwallow 'em, Flav. O let me stay And comfort you, my mafter! Stay not, but fly, whilft thou art bleft and free; [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter Poet and Painter. 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 of his friends? Pain. Nothing else: 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 promife him an excellent piece, Peet. I must ferve him fo too, tell him of an intent that's coming toward him. Pain. Good as the best; Promifing is the very air o'th' time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performance is ever the duller for his act; and, but in the 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 fickness in his judgment that makes it. Re-enter Re-enter Timon from his Carve, unseen, but overbearing him. Tim. Excellent workman! thou canst not paint a man fo bad as thy felf. Poet. I am thinking what I fhall fay I have provided for him: it must be a perfonating of himfelf; a fatyr against the foftness of profperity, with a difcovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency. Tim. Muft thou needs ftand for a villain in thine own work? wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? do fo, I have gold for thee. Pain. Nay, let's feek him, Then do we fin againft our own eftate, When we may profit meet, and come too late. Poet. True: While the day ferves, before black-corneted night, Tim. I'll meet you at the turn What a God's gold, that he is worshipped 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. Tim. Have I once liv'd to fee two honeft men ? Poet. Sir, having often of your bounty tafted, Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall'n off, For whofe moft thankless natures (abhorr'd spirits!) Not all the whips of heav'n are large enough: What! ev'n to you! Whofe ftar-like nobleness Gave life and influence to their being! I'm rapt, And cannot cover the monftrous bulk of this Ingratitude with any fize of words. Tim. Let it go naked, men may fee't the better: You that are honeft, by being what you are, Make them beft feen and known. Pain Pain. He, and my felf, Have travell'd in the fhower of your gifts, Tim. Ay, you're honeft men. Pain. We're hither come to offer you our service. Tim. Moft 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; speak truth, y'are honest 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 best, Thou counterfeit'st most lively. Pain. So fo, my Lord. Tim. E'en fo, Sir, as I fay -And for thy fiction, [To the Poet. Why, thy verfe fwells with stuff fo fine and Imooth, That thou art even natural in thine art. But for all this, my honeft-natur'd friends, I muft needs fay you have a little fault; Marry, not monftrous in you; neither wish I Both. 'Befeech your Honour To make it known to us. 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, Hang them, or ftab them, drown them in a draught, Both. Name them, my Lord, let's know them. Tim. You that way, and you this; not two in company, Each man apart, all fingle and alone; Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. If where thou art, two villains fhall not be, [To the Painter. Come not near bim.-If thou wouldst not refide [To the Poet. But where one villain is, then bim abandon. Hence, pack, there's gold, ye came for gold, ye flaves; You have work'd for me; there's your payment, hence! You are an alchymift, make gold of that: Out, rafcal dogs! [Exit beating and driving 'em out. SCENE III. Enter Flavius and two Senators. Flav. It is in vain that you would speak with Timon: › For he is fet fo only to himself, That nothing but himself which looks like man Is friendly with him. I Sen. Bring us to his cave. It is our part and promife to th' Athenians To fpeak with Timon. 2 Sen. At all times alike Men are not still the fame; 'twas time and griefs The former man may make him; bring us to him, Flav. Here is his cave: Peace and content be here, Lord Timon! Timon! Enter Timon out of his Cave. Tim. Thou Sun that comfort't, burn! For each true word a blifter, and each false Be cauterizing to the root o'th' tongue, Confuming it with speaking! F 2 speak and be [hang'd; 1 Sen. |