Var.
Well met, good Morrow, Titus and Hortensius.

Tit.
The like to you, kind Varro.

Hor.
Lucius, what do we meet together?

Luc.
Ay, and I think one Business does command us all.
For mine is Mony.

Tit.
So is theirs and ours. Enter Philo.

Luc.
And Sir Philo's too.

Phi.
Good Day at once.

Luc.
Welcome, good Brother.
What do you think the Hour?

Phi.
Labouring for nine.

Luc.
So much?

Phi.
Is not my Lord seen yet?

Luc.
Not yet.

Phi.
I wonder on't, he was wont to shine at seven.

Luc.
Ay, but the Days are wax'd shorter with him:
You must consider that a prodigal course
Is like the Sun's, but not like his recoverable, I fear:

'Tis deepest Winter in Lord Timon's Purse; that is, one may reach deep enough, and yet find little.

Phi.
I am of your fear for that.

Tit.
I'll shew you t' observe a strange Event:
Your Lord sends now for Mony?

Hor.
Most true, he does.

Tit.
And he wears Jewels now of Timon's Gift,
For which I wait for Mony.

Hor.
It is against my Heart.

Luc.
Mark how strange it shows,
Timon in this should pay more than he owes:
And e'en as if your Lord should wear rich Jewels
And send for Mony for 'em.

Hor.
I'm weary of this Charge, the Gods can witness:
I know my Lord hath spent of Timon's Wealth,
And now Ingratitude makes it worse than stealth.

Var.
Yes, mine's three thousand Crowns:
What's yours?

Luc.
Five thousand, mine.

Var.
'Tis much deep, and it should seem by th' Sum,
Your Master's Confidence was above mine,
Else surely his had equall'd. Enter Flaminius.

Tit.
One of Lord Timon's Men.

Luc.

Flaminius! Sir, a Word: Pray is my Lord ready to come forth?

Flam.

No, indeed he is not.

Tit.

We attend his Lordship; pray signifie so much.

Flam.

I need not tell him that, he knows you are too diligent.

Luc.
Ha! is not that his Steward muffled so?
He goes away in a Cloud: Call him, call him.

Tit.
Do you hear, Sir—

Var.
By your leave, Sir.

Flav.
What do you ask of me, my Friend?

Tit.
We wait for certain Mony here, Sir.

Flav.
If Mony were as certain as your waiting,
'T were sure enough.
Why then prefer'd you not your Sums and Bills,
When your false Masters eat of my Lord's Meat?
Then they would smile, and fawn upon his Debts,
And take down th'Interest into their glutt'nous Maws.
You do your selves but wrong to stir me up,
Let me pass quietly:
Believ't, my Lord and I have made an end,
I have no more to reckon, he to spend.

Luc.
Ay, but this answer will not serve.

Flav.
If 'twill not serve, 'tis not so base as you,
For you serve Knaves. [Exit Flavius.

Var.
How! what does his cashier'd worship mutter?

Tit.

No matter what—he's poor, and that's revenge enough. Who can speak broader than he that has no House to put his Head in? Such may rail against great Buildings.

Tit.

Oh, here's Servilius; now we shall have some answer.

Serv.

If I might beseech you, Gentlemen, to repair some other hour, I should derive much from't. For take't of my Soul, my Lord leans wondrously to discontent: His comfortable temper has forsook him, he's much out of Health, and keeps his Chamber.

Luc.
Many do keep their Chambers, are not sick:
And if it be so far beyond his Health,
Methinks he should the sooner pay his Debts,
And make a clear way to the Gods.

Serv.
Good Gods!

Tit.
We cannot take this for an Answer,

Flam. [within.]
Servilius, help—my Lord! my Lord. Enter Timon in a rage.

Tim.
What, are my Doors oppos'd against my passage?
Have I been ever free, and must my House
Be my retentive Enemy? My Goal?
The Place which I have feasted, does it now,
Like all Mankind, shew me an Iron Heart?

Luc.

Put in now, Titus.

Tit.

My Lord, here's my Bill.

Luc.

Here's mine.

Var.

And mine, my Lord.

Cap.

And ours, my Lord.

Phi.

All our Bills.

Tim.

Knock me down with 'em—cleave me to the Girdle.

Luc.

Alas, my Lord.

Tim.

Cut out my Heart in Sums.

Tit.

Mine, fifty Talents.

Tim.

Tell out my Blood.

Luc.

Five thousand Crowns, my Lord.

Tim.
Five thousand drops pays that.
What yours?—and yours?

Var.
My Lord—

Cap.
My Lord—

Tim.
Tear me, take me, and the Gods fall upon you. [Exit Timon.

Hor.

Faith, I perceive our Masters may throw their Caps at their Mony, these Debts may well be call'd desperate ones, for a mad Man owes 'em.