My dangerous nature wild. Let me behold
Thy face.—Surely, this man was born of woman.--
Forgive my general and exceptless rashness,
Perpetual-fober gods ! I do proclaim
One honest man,-mistake me not,-but one;
No more, I pray,—and he is a steward.-
How fain would I have hated all mankind,
And thou redeem'st thyself: But all, save thee,
I fell with curses.
Methinks, thou art more honest now, than wise;
For, by oppressing and betraying me,
Thou might'st have sooner got another service:
For many so arrive at second masters,
Upon their first lord's neck. But tell me true,
(For I must ever doubt, though ne'er so sure,)
Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous,
If not a usuring kindness; and as rich men deal gifts,
Expecting in return twenty for one?

Flav. No, my most worthy master, in whose breast
Doubt and suspect, alas, are plac'd too late:
You should have fear'd false times, when you did feast:
Suspect still comes where an estate is least.
That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,
Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind,
Care of your food and living: and, believe it,
My most honour'd lord,

bencfit that points to me, Either in hope, or present, I'd exchange For this one wish, That you


power and wealth To requite me, by making rich yourself.

Tiu. Look thee, 'tis fo!—Thou singly honest man, Here, take :--the gods out of my misery Have fent thee treasure. Go, live rich, and happy:

But thus condition'd; Thou shalt build from men;
Hate all, curse all : show charity to none;
But let the famish'd flesh flide from the bone,
Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogs
What thou deny'st to men ; let prisons swallow them,
Debts wither them: Be men like blasted woods,
And may diseases lick


their false bloods ! And so, farewell, and thrive.

Flav. 0, let me stay,
And comfort you, my

Tim. If thou hat'st
Curses, stay not; fly, whilst thou'rt bless’d and free:
Ne'er fee thou mąn, and let me ne'er see thee.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE I. The same. Before Timon's Cave.
Enter Poet and PAINTER; Timon behind, unseen.

Pain. As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides.

Poet. What's to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true, that he is so full of gold?

Pain. Certain : Alcibiades reports it ; Phrynia and Tymandra had gold of him : he likewise enrich'd poor ftraggling soldiers with great quantity: 'Tis faid, he gave unto his steward a mighty fum.

Port. Then this breaking of his has been but a try his friends.

Pain. Nothing else: you shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. Therefore, 'tis not amiss, we tender our loves to him, in this supposed diftress of his : it will show honestly in us; and is very likely


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to load our purposes with what they travel for, if it be a
just and true report


of his having
Poet. What have you now to present unto him?

Pain. Nothing at this time but my visitation : only I will promise him an excellent piece.

POET. I must serve him fo too; tell him of an intent: that's coming toward him.

Pain. Good as the best. Promising is the very air o' the time : it



eyes of expectation : performance is ever the duller for his act; and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable: performance is a kind of will, or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgement that makes it.

Tim. Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man so bad as is thyself,

Poet. I am thinking, what I shall say I have provided for him : It must be a personating of himself: a satire against the softness of prosperity; with a discovery of the infinite flatteries, that follow youth and opulency.

Tim. Must thou needs stand for a villain in thine own work? Wilt thou: whip thine own faults in other men? Do so, I have gold for thee.

Poet. Nay, let's seek him:
Then do we sin against our own estate,
When we may profit meet, and come too late.

Pain. True;
When the day ferves, before black-corner'd night,
Find what thou want'st by free and offer'd light.

Tim. I'll meet you at the turn. What a god's gold,
That he is worshipp'd in a baser temple,
Than where swine feed!

'Tis thou that rigg'st the bark, and plough'st the foam;
Settlest admired reverence in a slave :
To thee be worship! and thy saints for aye
Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey !
Fit I do meet them.

Poet. Hail, worthy Timon !
Pain. Our late noble master.
Tim. Have I once liv'd to see two honest men?
Poet. Sir,
Having often of your open bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall’n off,
Whose thankless natures- abhorred spirits !
Not all the whips of heaven are large enough
What! to you!
Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence
To their whole being! I'm rapt, and cannot cover
The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude

fize of words.
Tim. Let it go naked, men may see't the better :
You, that are honest, by being what you are,
Make them best seen, and known.

Pain. He, and myself,
Have travell’d in the great shower of your gifts,
And sweetly felt it.

Tim. Ay, you are honest men.
Pain. We are hither come to offer you our service.

Tim. Most honest men! Why, how shall 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. You are honest men: You have heard that I

have gold; I am sure, you have : speak truth: you are honest men.

Pain. So it is said, my noble lord: but therefore

your honour,

Came not my friend, nor I.

Tim. Good honeft men :-Thou draw'st a counterfeit
Best in all Athens : thou art, indeed, the best;
Thou counterfeit'st most lively.

Pan. So, so, my lord.
Tim. Even so, sir, as I say :-And, for thy fiction,

[To the Poet.
Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth,
That thou art even natural in thine art.-
But, for all this, my honest-natur'd friends,
I must needs say, you have a little fault :
Marry, 'tis not monstrous in you; neither wish I,
You take much pains to mend.

Both. Beseech
To make it known to us.

Tim. You'll take it ill.
Both. Most thankfully, my lord.
Tim. Will you, indeed?
Both. Doubt it not, worthy lord.

Tim. There's ne'er a one of you but trusts a knave, That mightily deceives you.

Both. Do we, my lord ?
Tim. Ay, and you

hear him


see him difsemble,
Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,
Keep in your bosom : yet remain assur'd,
That he's a made-up villain.

Pain. I know none such, my lord.
POET. Nor I.

Tim. Look you, I love you well; I'll give you gold,
Rid me these villains from your companies :
Hang them, or stab them, drown them in a draught,
Confound them by some course, and come to me,
I'll give you gold enough.

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