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My dangerous nature wild. Let me behold
Flav. No, my most worthy master, in whose breast
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;
their false bloods ! And so, farewell, and thrive.
Flav. 0, let me stay,
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
to load our purposes with what they travel for, if it be a
of his having
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:
Tim. I'll meet you at the turn. What a god's gold,
'Tis thou that rigg'st the bark, and plough'st the foam;
fize of words.
Pain. He, and myself,
Tim. Ay, you are honest men.
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
Came not my friend, nor I.
Tim. Good honeft men :-Thou draw'st a counterfeit
Pan. So, so, my lord.
[To the Poet.
Tim. You'll take it ill.
Tim. There's ne'er a one of you but trusts a knave, That mightily deceives you.
Both. Do we, my lord ?
see him difsemble,
Pain. I know none such, my lord.
Tim. Look you, I love you well; I'll give you gold,