Pain.

As I took note of the place, it can't be far where he abides.

Poet.

What's to be thought of him? does the rumour hold for true, that he's so full of gold?

Pain.

Certain. Alcibiades reports it: Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him, he likewise enrich'd poor stragling soldiers with great quantity. 'Tis said, he gave his steward a mighty sum.

Poet.

Then this breaking of his, has been but a tryal for his friends?

Pain.

Nothing else: you shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. Therefore, 'tis not amiss, we tender our loves to him, in this suppos'd distress of his: it will shew 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'th' 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 is quite out of use. To promise, is most courtly, and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.

Tim.

Excellent workman! thou canst not paint a man so bad as thy self.

Poet.

I am thinking what I shall say I have provided for him: it must be a personating of himself; a satyr 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:
While the day serves, before black-corner'd night;
Find what thou want'st, by free and offer'd light.
Come.

Tim.
I'll meet you at the turn—
What a god's gold, that he is worshipped
In baser temples, than where swine do feed?
'Tis thou that rigg'st the bark, and plow'st the foame,
Setlest admired rev'rence in a slave;
To thee be worship, and thy saints for aye
Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey!
'Tis fit I meet them.

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 bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retir'd, your friends faln off,
Whose thankless natures, oh abhorred spirits!
Not all the whips of heav'n are large enough—
What! to you!
Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence
To their whole being! I am 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 my self,
Have travell'd in the great shower of your gifts,
And sweetly felt it.

Tim.
Ay, you're honest men.

Pain.
We're 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.
Y'are honest men; you've heard that I have gold,
I'm sure you have, speak truth, y'are honest men.

Pain.
So it is said, my noble lord, but therefore
Came not my friend, nor I.

Tim.
Good honest man; thou draw'st a counterfeit
Best in all Athens, thou'rt indeed the best,
Thou counterfeit'st most lively.

Pain.
So so, my lord.

Tim.
E'en so, Sir, as I say—And for thy fiction,
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 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 cogg, see him dissemble,
Know his gross patchery, love him, and feed him,
Keep in your bosom, yet remain assur'd
That he's a made-up villain.

Pain.
I know none such, my lord.

Poet.
Nor I.

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,
Confound them by some course, and come to me,
I'll give you gold enough.

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

Tim.
You that way, and you this;—but two in company:
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 wouldst 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 work for me; there's your payment, hence,

You are an alchymist, make gold of that:
Out rascal dogs. [Beating and driving 'em out.

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