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 201 will promise him an excellent piece.

Poct. 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 30 sickness in his judgement that makes it.

[Timon comes from his cave, behind. Tim. [Aside] 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. [Aside] Must thou needs stand for a villain in

thine own work? wilt thou whip thine own 40
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. [Aside] 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!

51

'Tis thou that rigg'st the bark and plough'st the foam, 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 meet them.

Poet. Hail, worthy Timon!

Pain.

[Coming forward.

Our late noble master!

60

Tim. Have I once lived to see two honest men?
Poet. Sir,

Having often of your open bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retired, 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.

Tim.

He and myself

Have travail'd in the great shower of your gifts,
And sweetly felt it.

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?

70

Can you eat roots, and drink cold water? no. Both. What we can do, we 'll do, to do you service. Tim. Ye're honest men: ye've heard that I have gold;

I am sure you have: speak truth; ye're honest men. Pain. So it is said, my noble lord: but therefore 81

Came not my friend nor I.

Tim. Good honest men! 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.

Both.

Tim.

But, for all this, my honest-natured 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.

To make it known to us.

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 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 assured
That he's a made-up villain.

Pain. I know none such, my lord.

90

100

Poet.

Nor I.

Tim. "Look you, I love you well; I'll give you gold," Timon of Athens. Act 5, Scene 1.