Poet. "I am thinking, what I fhall fay I have pro❝vided for him: it must be a perfonating † of himself; "a fatyr against the foftnefs of profperity, with a dif66 covery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and ❝opulency.

Tim. Muft thou needs ftand for a villain in thine own work? wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? do fo, I have gold for thee.

Pain. Nay, let's feek him.

Then do we fin against our own estate,

When we may profit meet, and come too late.

Poet. True.

Pain. While the day ferves, before black-cornette
night,

Find what thou want'ft, 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 bafer temples, than where swine do feed! 'Tis thou that rigg'ft the bark, and plow'it the foam, Settlelt admired rev'rence in a flave

To thee be worship, and thy faints for aye

Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey! 'Tis fit I meet them.

Poet. Hail! worthy Timon.

Pain. Our late noble mafter.

Tim. Have I once liv'd to fee two honest men?
Poet. Sir, having often of your bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall'n off,
Whofe 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 ain rapt, and cannot
Cover the monstrous bulk of this ingratitude
With any fize of words.

Tim. Let it go naktd, men may fee't the better;
You that are honeft, by being what you are,
Make them beft feen and known.

Pain. He and myself

Have travell'd in the great shower of your gifts,

tperfonating, for reprefenting, fimply.

And

And fweetly felt it.

Tim. Ay, you're honeft men.

Pain. We're hither come to offer you our service. Tim. Moft honeft men! why, how shall I requite you? Can you, eat roots, and drink cold water no.

Both. What we can do, we'll do, tó do you service. Tim. Y'are honeft men! you've heard that I have gold; I'm fure you have; speak truth, y'are honeft men.

Pain. So it is faid, my Noble Lord; but therefore Came not my friend, nor I.

Tim. Good honeft man; thou draw'ft a counterfeit Beft in all Athens; thou'rt indeed the beft; Thou counterfeit❜t moft lively.

Pain. So, fo, my Lord.

Tim. Ev'n fo, Sir, as I fay-And for thy fiction,

[To the Poet. Why, thy verfe fwells with stuff fo fine and smooth, That thou art even natural in thine art.

But for all this, my honeft-natur'd friends,
I muft needs fay, you have a little fault;
Marry, not monftrous in you; neither wish F,
You take much pains to mend.

Both. Befeech you Honour

To make it known to us.

Tim. You'll take it ill.

Both. Moft 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, fee him diffemble, Know his grofs patchery, love him, and feed him,

Keep in your bosom, yet remain affur'd,

That he's a made-up villain.

Pain. I know none fuch, 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 fome courfe, and come to me, I'll give you gold enough.

.Bath.

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

Tim. You that way, and you this ;-but two in com

pany †

Each man apart, all fingle and alone,
Yet an arch villain keeps him company.
If where thou art two villains fhall not be,

[To the Painter.

Come not near him.

-If thou would'ft not refide

[To the Poet.

But where one villain is, then him abandon.
Hence, pack, there's gold; ye came for gold, ye flaves;
You have work for me; there's your payment, hence!
You are an alchymift, make gold of that:

Out, rafcal dogs!

[Exit, beating, and driving 'em out.

SCENE II1. Enter Flavius and two Senators.

Flav. It is in vain that you would speak with Timon:

For he is fet fo only to himself,

That nothing but himself which looks like man,

Is friendly with him.

1 Sen. Bring us to his cave.

It is our part and promise to the Athenians
To speak with Timon.

2 Sen. At all times alike

Men are not ftill the fame; 'twas time and griefs

That fram'd him thus.

Time with his fairer hand

Offering the fortunes of his former days,

The former man may make him; bring us to him,
And chance it as it may.

Flav. Here is his cave.

Peace and content be here, Lord Timon Timon!
Look out, and fpeak to friends: th' Athenians
By two of their most rev'rend fenate greet thee;
Speak to them, Noble Timon.

Enter Timon out of his cave.

Tim. Thou fun, that comfort'ft, burn!

Speak, and be hang'd;

For each true word a blifter, and each false

Be cauterizing to the root o' th' tongue,

Confuming

This is an imperfect fentence; and is to be supplied thus, But

trvo in company spoils all.

Confuming it with speaking!

1 Sen. Worthy Timon,

Tim.-Of none but fuch as you, and you of Timon. 2 Sen. The Senators of Athens greet thee, Timon. Tim. I thank them; and would send them back the Could I but catch it for them. [plague,

I Sen. O, forget

What we are forry for ourfelves, in thee:

The Senators, with one confent of love,

Intreat thee back to Athens; who have thought
On fpecial dignities, which vacant lie

For thy beft ufe and wearing.

2 Sen. They confefs

Tow'rd thee forgetfulnefs, too general, grofs;
And now the public body, (which doth feldom
Play the recanter), feeling in itself

A lack of Timon's aid, hath sense withal
Of its own fall, reftraining aid to Timon;
And fends forth us to make their forrowed tender,
Together with a recompence more fruitful

Than their offence can weigh down by the dram;
Ay, ev'n fuch heaps and fums of love and wealth,
As fhall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs,
And write in thee the figures of their love,
Ever to read them thine.

Tim. You witch me in it,

Surprise me to the very brink of tears:

Lend me a fool's heart, and a woman's eyes,
And I'll beweep thefe comforts, worthy Senators.

1 Sen. Therefore so please thee to return with us,
And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take
The captainfhip: thou shalt be met with thanks,
Hallow'd with abfolute power, and thy good name
Live with authority: foon we fhall drive back
Of Alcibiades th' approaches wild,

Who, like a boar too favage, doth root up
His country's peace.

2 Sen. And shakes his threat'ning fword Against the walls of Athens.

1 Sen. Therefore, Timon

Tim. Well, Sir, I will; therefore I will, Sir; thusIf Alcibiades kill my countrymen,

Let

Let Alcibiades know this of Timon,

That Timon cares not. If he fack fair Athens,
And take our goodly aged men by th' beards,
Giving our holy virgins to the ftain

Of contumelious, beaftly, mad-brain'd war;
Then let him know, and tell him Timon speaks it;
In pity of our aged, and our youth,

I cannot chufe but tell him, that I care not.

And let him take't at worst; for their knives care not, While you have throats to answer. For myself, There's not a whittle in th' unruly camp,

But I do prize it in my love, before

The reverend'ft throat in Athens. So I leave you
To the protection of the profp'rous † gods,
As thieves to keepers.

Flav. Stay not, all's in vain.

Tim. Why, I was writing of my epitaph,
It will be feen to-morrow. My long fickness
Of health and living now begins to mend,
And nothing brings me all things. Go, live ftill,
Be Alcibiades your plague; you his;
And laft fo long enough!

1 San. We fpeak in vain.

Tim. But yet I love my country, and am not
One that rejoices in the common wreck,
As common bruit doth put it.

I Sen. That's well spoke.

Tim. Commend me to my loving countrymen, 1 Sen. These words become your lips, as they pafs thro' them.

2 Sen. And enter in our ears, like great triumphers. In their applauding gates

Tim. Commend me to them,

And tell them, that to ease them of their griefs,
Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, loffes,
Their pangs of love, with other incident throes,
That nature's fragile veffel doth sustain
In life's uncertain voyage, I will do

Some kindness to them, teach them to prevent
Wild Alcibiades' wrath.

2 Sen. I like this well, he will return again.
VOL. VI.

Ο

profp'rous, for happy. The claffical epithet of the gods.

Tim.