Have fent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy : But let the famish'd flesh flide from the bone, Let prifons fwallow 'em, Debts wither 'em; be men like blafted woods, Flav. O, let me ftay, 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 promife him an excellent piece. Poet. I must 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. Perfor mance is ever the duller for his act, and, but in the plainer plainer and fimpler kind of people, the deed is quite Out of use. To promife, is moft courtly, and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great fick nefs 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 thyself. Poet. I am thinking, what I fhall fay I have provided for him: it must be a perfonating of himself; a satire against the foftness of profperity, with a difcovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency. Tim. Mult thou needs stand 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 feek him. Then do we fin against our own eftate, When we may profit meet, and come too late. Pain. True. Poet. While the day ferves, before black-corner'à night, (35) Find what thou want'ft, by free and offer'd light. 7 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'ft 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 ascribe it to him. (36) 'Tis thou that riggft the bark, and plow'ft the foam, Settleft admired rev'rence in a flave ;] As both the couplets preceding, and following this, are in rhyme, I 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 ? Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence 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 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 service. 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 there fore 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'ft moft lively. Pain. So, fo, my Lord. (37) Let it go, naked men may fee't the better;] Thus has this pasfage 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 preeeding speech, haranguing on the ingratitude of Timon's falfe friends, fays, he cannot cover the monftrousness 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 feek'st thou then to cover with excufe 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 To make it known to us. 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 ftab 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; Enter 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, 1 Sen. Bring us to his cave. It is our part and promife to th' Athenians 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 fun, that comfort'ft, burn! Speak, and be hang'd; For each true word a blifter, and each falfe Be cauterizing to the root o' th' tongue, Confuming it with speaking. 1 Sen. Worthy Timon, Tim. Of none but fuch as you, and you of Timon. 2 Sen. The Senators of Athens greet thee, Timon. Tim. I thank them. And would fend them back the Could I but catch it for them. 1 Sen. O, forget What we are forry for ourfelves, in thee: The Senators, with one confent of love, Intreat thee back to Athens; who have thought For thy beft ufe and wearing. 2 Sen. They confefs Tow'rd thee forgetfulnefs, too general, grofs; 3 [plague, Which |