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 Timandra had gold of him: he likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity: 'Tis said, he gave unto his steward a mighty sum.

Poet.

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

Pain.

Nothing else: you shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish^{4 note} with the highest. Therefore,

'tis not amiss, we tender our loves to him, in this supposed distress 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 just and true report that goes 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 so 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 opens the 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^{5 note}

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^{6 note}: 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 serves^{7 note}, before black-corner'd night^{8 note}

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^{9 note}. [Advancing.

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—O 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
With any size 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
Came not my friend, nor I.

Tim.
Good honest men:—Thou draw'st a counterfeit^{1 note}


Best in all Athens: thou art, indeed, the best;
Thou counterfeit'st most lively.

Pain.
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 your honour,
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 cog, see him dissemble,
Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,
Keep in your bosom: yet remain assur'd,
That he's a made-up villain^{2 note}

Pain.
I know none such, my lord.

Poet.
Nor I^{3 note}
.

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^{4 note}

Both.
Name them, my lord, let's know them.

Tim.
You that way, and you this, but two in company^{5 note}

Each man apart, all single and alone,
Yet an arch-villain keeps him company,
If, where thou art, two villains shall not be, [To the Painter.
Come not near him.—If thou would'st not reside [To the Poet.
But where one villain is, then him abandon.—
Hence! pack! there's gold, ye came for gold, ye slaves:
You have done work for me, there's payment^{6 note}

You are an alchymist, make gold of that:—
Out, rascal dogs! [Exit, beating and driving them out.

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