My dangerous nature wild. Let me behold.
Thy face. Surely, this man was born of woman.—
Forgive my general and exceptlefs rafhness,
Perpetual-fober gods! I do proclaim

One honeft 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'ft thyfelf: But all, fave thee,
I fell with curfes.

Methinks, thou art more honest now, than wife;
For, by oppreffing and betraying me,

Thou might'ft have fooner got another service:
For many fo arrive at fecond masters,
Upon their first lord's neck. But tell me true,
(For I must ever doubt, though ne'er fo fure,)
Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous,

If not a ufuring kindness; and as rich men deal gifts,
Expecting in return twenty for one?

FLAV. No, my moft worthy master, in whose breaft Doubt and fufpect, alas, are plac'd too late:

You fhould have fear'd falfe times, when you did feaft: Sufpect ftill comes where an eftate is least.

That which I fhow, heaven knows, is merely love,

Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind,

Care of your food and living: and, believe it,

My moft honour'd lord,

For any benefit that points to me,

Either in hope, or prefent, I'd exchange

For this one wifh, That you had power and wealth To requite me, by making rich yourself.

TIM. Look thee, 'tis fo!-Thou fingly honeft man, Here, take the gods out of my mifery

Have fent thee treafure. Go, live rich, and happy:

But thus condition'd; Thou fhalt build from men ;
Hate all, curfe all: fhow charity to none;

But let the famifh'd flesh flide from the bone,

Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogs

What thou deny'ft to men; let prifons fwallow them,
Debts wither them: Be men like blafted woods,
And may diseases lick up their falfe bloods!
And fo, farewell, and thrive.

FLAV. O, let me stay,

And comfort you, my mafter.

TIM. If thou hat'st

Curfes, ftay not; fly, whilft thou'rt blefs'd and free:
Ne'er fee thou man, and let me ne'er fee thee.

[Exeunt feverally,

ACT V.

SCENE I. The fame. Before TIMON'S Cave. Enter POET and PAINTER; TIMON behind, unfeen.

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 fo full of gold?

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

POET. Then this breaking of his has been but a try for 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 fuppofed diftrefs of his: it will show 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 present unto him?

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

POET. I must ferve him so too; tell him of an intent that's coming toward him.

PAIN. Good as the beft. Promifing is the very air o' the 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 of faying is quite out of ufe. To promise is most courtly and fashionable: performance is a kind of will, or teftament, which argues a great fickness in his judgement that makes it.

TIM. Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man fo 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 fatire against the softness of profperity; with a discovery 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.

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;

When the day ferves, before black-corner'd night,
Find what thou want'ft by free and offer'd light.
Come

TIM. I'll meet you at the turn. What a god's gold, That he is worshipp'd in a bafer temple,

Than where fwine feed!

'Tis thou that rigg'ft the bark, and plough'ft the foam; Settleft admired reverence in a flave:

To thee be worship! and thy faints for aye

Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey!

'Fit I do meet them.

POET. Hail, worthy Timon!

PAIN. Our late noble mafter.

[Advancing.

TIM. Have I once liv'd to fee two honeft men?
POET. Sir,

Having often of your open bounty tafted,
Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall'n off,
Whofe thankless natures-O abhorred fpirits!
Not all the whips of heaven are large enough-
What! to you!

Whofe ftar-like nobleness gave life and influence
To their whole 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 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 fhower of

And fweetly felt it.

TIM. Ay, you are honest men.

your gifts,

PAIN. We are hither come to offer you our fervice.

Can

TIM. Most honest men! Why, how fhall I requite you?

you eat roots, and drink cold water? no. BOTH. What we can do, we'll do, to do you fervice. TIM. You are honest men: You have heard that I

have gold;

I am fure, you have: speak truth: you are honest men. PAIN. So it is faid, my noble lord: but therefore

Came not my friend, nor I.

TIM. Good honest men :-Thou draw'ft a counterfeit Beft in all Athens: thou art, indeed, the beft;

Thou counterfeit'st most lively.

PAIN. So, fo, my lord.

TIM. Even fo, fir, as I fay :-And, for thy fiction,

[To the POET.

Why, thy verfe fwells with stuff so fine and smooth,
That thou art even natural in thine art.-
But, for all this, my honeft-natur'd friends,
I must needs fay, you have a little fault :
Marry, 'tis not monftrous in you; neither wish I,
You take much pains to mend.
BOTH. Befeech your honour,

To make it known to us.

TIM. You'll take it ill.

BOTH. Most thankfully, my lord.
TIM. Will you, indeed?

you but trufts a knave,

BOTH. Doubt it not, worthy lord.
TIM. There's ne'er a one of
That mightily deceives you.

BOTH. Do we, my lord?

TIM. Ay, and you hear him cog, fee him diffemble, Know his grofs patchery, love him, 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

well; I'll give you gold,

you, I love you well;

Rid me thefe villains from your companies :

Hang them, or ftab them, drown them in a draught, Confound them by fome course, and come to me, I'll give you gold enough.