SCENE I.
The Same. Before Timon's Cave.
Enter Poet and Painter5 note.
Pain.
As I took note of the place, it cannot be far
where he abides.
Poet.
What's to be thought of him? Does the
rumour hold for true, that he is so full of gold?
Pain.
Certain: Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and
Timandra had gold of him: he likewise enriched poor
straggling soldiers with great quantity. 'Tis said, he
gave unto his steward a mighty sum.
Poet.
Then this breaking of his has been but a try
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
supposed distress of his: it will show honestly in us,
and is very likely to load our purposes with what they
travail for, 11Q0960 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' the time: it opens the eyes of expectation: performance
-- 578 --
is ever the duller for his act; and, but in the
plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying
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.
Enter Timon, from his Cave6 note.
Tim.
Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a
man so bad as is thyself.
Poet.
I am thinking, what I shall say I have provided
for him. It must be a personating of himself:
a satire 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;
When 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 worshipp'd in a baser temple,
Than where swine feed!
'Tis thou that rigg'st the bark, and plough'st the foam;
Settlest admired reverence in a slave:
-- 579 --
To thee be worship7 note; and thy saints for aye
Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey!
Fit I meet them.
[Advancing.
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 open bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall'n off,
Whose thankless natures—O, abhorred spirits!
Not all the whips of heaven 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 myself,
Have travell'd in the great shower of your gifts,
And sweetly felt it.
Tim.
Ay, you are honest men.
Pain.
We are 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.
You are honest men. You have heard that I have gold;
I am sure you have: speak truth; you are honest men.
Pain.
So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore
Came not my friend, nor I.
-- 580 --
Tim.
Good honest men!—Thou draw'st a counterfeit8 note
Best in all Athens: thou art, indeed, the best;
Thou counterfeit'st most lively.
Pain.
So, so, my lord.
Tim.
Even 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, 'tis 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 never a one of you but trusts a knave,
That mightily deceives you.
Both.
Do we, my lord?
Tim.
Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,
Know his gross patchery, love him, 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 company9 note:—
-- 581 --
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 would'st 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 done work for me1 note
, there's payment: hence!
You are an alchymist, make gold of that.
Out, rascal dogs!
[Exit, beating them out.
J. Payne Collier [1842–1844], The works of William Shakespeare. The text formed from an entirely new collation of the old editions: with the various readings, notes, a life of the poet, and a history of the Early English stage. By J. Payne Collier, Esq. F.S.A. In eight volumes (Whittaker & Co. [etc.], London) [word count] [S10101].
