Flav.

And comfort you, my master.

O, let me stay,

If thou hat'st

Tim. Curses, stay not; fly, whilst thou'rt bless'd and free: Ne'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee.

[Exeunt severally.

ACT V. SCENE I.

The Same. Before Timon's Cave.

47 Enter Poet and Painter; TIMON behind, unseen.

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 Tymandra had gold of him: he likewise enrich'd 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 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' the 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 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 judgement that makes it.

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

Settlest admired reverence in a slave:

To thee be worship! and thy saints for aye
Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey!
'Fit I do meet them.

Poet. Hail, worthy Timon!

Pain.

[Advancing.

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'm 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 ser

vice.

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.

Tim. Good honest men :-Thou draw'st a counter

feit

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,
[To the Poet.
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.

To make it known to us.

Tim.

Beseech your honour,

You'll take it ill.

Will you, indeed?

Both. Most thankfully, my lord.
Tim.

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 cog, see him dissemble,