1. S.
Hear you, good master steward; where's our master?
Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining?

Ste.
Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you?
Let be ^note recorded by the righteous gods,
I am as poor as you.

1. S.
Such a house broke!
So noble a master fall'n! All gone; and not
One friend, to take his fortune by the arm,
And go along with him!

2. S.
As we do turn our backs

From our companion, thrown into his grave;
So his familiars from his ^note bury'd fortunes
Slink all away; leave their false vows with him,
Like empty purses pick'd: and his poor self,
A dedicated beggar to the air,
With his disease of all-shun'd poverty,
Walks, like ^note contempt, alone. More of our follows. ^note Enter other Servants.

Ste.
All broken implements of a ruin'd house.

3. S.
Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery,
That see I by our faces; we are fellows still,
Serving alike in sorrow: Leak'd is our bark;
And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck,
Hearing the surges threat: we must all part
Into this sea of air.

Ste.
Good fellows all,
The latest of my wealth I'll share among'st you.
Wherever we shall meet, for Timon's sake,
Let's yet be fellows; let's shake our heads, and say,
As 'twere a knell unto our master's fortunes,
We have seen better days. Let each take some; [giving them Money.
Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more:
Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor. [embrace, and Exeunt Servants.
O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us!
Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,
Since riches point to misery, and contempt?
Who'd be so mock'd with glory? or to live
But in a dream of friendship?
To have his pomp, and all what state compounds,
But only painted, like his varnish'd friends?

Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart;
Undone by goodness!—Strange, unusual blood,
When man's worst sin is, he does too much good!
Who then dares to be half so kind again?
For bounty, that makes gods, does still ^note mar men.
My dearest lord,—blest, to be most accurst;
Rich, only to be wretched;—thy great fortunes
Are made thy chief affictions. Alas, kind lord!
He's flung in rage from this ingrateful seat
Of monstrous friends: nor has he ^note with him to
Supply his life, or that which can command it.
I'll follow, and inquire him out:
I'll ever serve his mind with my best will;
Whilst I have gold, I'll be his steward still. [Exit.

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