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

Tit.
The like to you, kind Varro.

Hor.
Lucius, why do we meet together?

Luc.
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 d'you think the hour?

Phi.
Labouring for nine.

Luc.
So much?

Phi.
Is not my lord seen yet?

Luc.
Not yet.

Phi.
I wonder: he was wont to shine at seven.

Luc.
Ay, but the days are waxed shorter with him:
You must consider that a Prodigal's 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 how t' observe a strange event:
Your lord sends now for money.

Hor.
True, he does.

Tit.
And he wears jewels now of Timon's gift,
For which I wait for mony.

Hor.
Against my heart.

Luc.
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;
Ingratitude now makes it worse than stealth.

Var.
Yes, mine's three thousand crowns: what's yours?

Luc.
Five thousand.

Var.
'Tis too much deep; and, it should seem by th' sum,
^{9 note}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.

Enter Flavius in a cloak muffled.

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,
'Twere sure enough.
Why then preferr'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 in their glutt'nous maws;
You do your selves but wrong to stir me up,
Let me pass quietly:—
Believe'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.

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.

Ser.

If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other hour, I should derive much from it. For take it of my soul,

Luc.
Many do keep their chambers, are not sick:

And if he be so far beyond his health,
Methinks, he should the sooner pay his debts,
And make a clear way to the Gods.

Ser.
Good Gods!

Tit.
We cannot take this for an answer.

Flam. [within]
Servilius, help—my lord! my lord.

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