Senator.
And late, five thousand. To Varro and to Isidore
He owes nine thousand, besides my former Sum;
Which makes it five and twenty.—Still in motion
Of raging waste? It cannot hold, it will not.
If I want gold, steal but a beggar's dog,
And give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold.
If I would sell my horse, and buy ten more
Better than he; why, give my horse to Timon;
^{9 note}

But rather one that smiles, and still invites
All that pass by it. It cannot hold; ^{2 note}

Caph.
Here, Sir, what is your pleasure?

Sen.
Get on your cloak, and haste you to Lord Timon;
Importune him for my monies, be not ceas'd
With slight denial; nor then silenc'd, when
“Commend me to your master”—and the cap
Plays in the right hand, thus. But tell him, sirrah,
My uses cry to me, I must serve my turn
Out of mine own; his days and times are past,
And my reliance on his fracted dates
Has smit my credit. I love and honour him;
But must not break my back, to heal his finger.
Immediate are my needs, and my relief
Must not be tost and turn'd to me in words,
But find supply immediate. Get you gone.
Put on a most importunate aspect,
A visage of demand; for I do fear,
When every feather sticks in his own wing,
Lord Timon will be left a naked Gull,
Who flashes now a Phœnix. Get you gone.

Caph.
I go, Sir.

Sen.
I go, Sir?—^{3 note}
Take the bonds along with you,
And have the dates in Compt.

Caph.
I will, Sir.

Sen.
Go. [Exeunt.

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