Flav. An honest servant,

Tim. Then I know thee not:

I ne'er had an honeft man about me, all

I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains.
Flav. The Gods are witness,

Ne'er did poor fteward wear a truer grief
For his undone lord, than mine eyes for you.
Tim. What, doft thou weep? come nearer, then I
love thee,

Because thou art a woman, and disclaim'st
Flinty mankind; whofe eyes do never give
But or through luft, or laughter. Pity's fleeping;
Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with
weeping!

Flav. I beg of you to know me, good my lord,
T'accept my grief, and, whilft this poor wealth lafts
To entertain me as your
fteward ftill.

Tim. Had I a steward

So true, fo juft, and now so comfortable?
It almoft turns my dangerous nature mild.
Let me behold thy face: furely, this man
Was born of woman.

Forgive my gen'ral and exceptlefs rashness,
Perpetual, fober Gods! I do proclaim
One honeft man: mistake me not, but one:
No more, I pray; and he's a steward.

How fain would I have hated all mankind,
And thou redeem'ft thyfelf: but all, fave thee,
I fell with curses.

Methinks, thou art more honest now, than wife;
For, by oppreffing and betraying me,

Thou might'ft have fooner got another fervice:
For many fo arrive at fecond masters,
Upon their first lord's neck. But tell me true,
(For I must ever doubt, though ne'er fo fure)
Is not thy kindness fubtle, covetous,

A ufuring kindness, as rich men deal gifts,
Expecting in return twenty for one?

Flav. No, my moft worthy mafter, (in whose breast Doubt and Sufpect, alas, are plac'd too late,)

You should have fear'd falfe times, when you did feaft;

Sufpect ftill comes, where an estate is leaft.

That which I fhew, heav'n knows, is merely love,
Duty, and Zeal, to your unmatched mind,"
Care of your food and living: and, believe it,
For any benefit that points to me

Either in hope, or prefent, I'd exchange

For this one wish, that you had power and wealth To requite me by making rich yourself.

Tim. Look thee, 'tis fo; thou fingly honest man, Here, take; the Gods out of my mifery

Have fent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy:
But thus condition'd; Thou shalt build from men:
Hate all, curfe all, fhew charity to none;

But let the famifht flesh flide from the bone,
Ere thou relieve the beggar. Give to dogs
What thou deny'ft to men. Let prifons fwallow 'em,
Debts wither 'em; be men like blafted woods,
And may diseases lick up their false bloods!

And fo farewel, and thrive.

Flav. O, let me ftay, and comfort you, my mafter.
Tim. If thou hat'ft curses,

Stay not, but fly, whilft thou art bleft and free;
Ne'er fee thou man, and let me ne'er fee thee.

Pain.

SCENE

[Exeunt feverally.

II.

Enter Poet and Painter.

AS I took note of the place, it can't be far

where he abides.

Poet. What's to be thought of him? does the rumour hold for true, that he's fo full of gold?

Pain. Certain. Alcibiades reports it: Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him: he likewife enrich'd poor

ftragling

ftragling foldiers with great quantity. 'Tis faid, he gave his fteward a mighty fum.

Poet. Then this breaking of his has been but a trial of his friends?

Pain. Nothing else: you fhall fee him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the higheft. Therefore, 'tis not amifs, we tender our loves to him, in this fuppos'd diftrefs of his it will fhew honeftly in us, and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travel for, if it be a juft and true report that goes of his Having.

Poet. What have you now to present unto him? Pain. Nothing at this time but my vifitation: only I will promise him an excellent piece.

Poet. I muft ferve him fo too; tell him of an intent that's coming toward him.

Pam. Good as the beft: Promifing is the very air o'th' time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performance is ever the duller for his act, and, but in the plainer and fimpler kind of people, the deed is quite out of ufe. To promife, is moft courtly, and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.

Re-enter Timon from his Cave, unseen.

Tim. Excellent workman! thou canst not paint a man fo bad as thyself.

Poet. I am thinking, what I fhall fay I have provided for him: it must be a perfonating of himself; a fatyr against the foftnefs of profperity, with a difcovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency.

Tim. Muft you 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.

Poet. Nay, let's feek him.

Then do we fin against our own estate,

When

When we may profit meet, and come too late.

Pain. True.

Poet. While the day ferves, before black-corner'd 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'st the bark, and plow'ft the foam, Settleft 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.

1 Poet. Hail! worthy Timon.

Pain. Our late noble mafter.

Tim. Have I once liv'd to fee two honeft men? Poet. Sir, having often of your bounty tafted, Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall'n off, Whofe thankless natures, (oh abhorred fpirits!) Not all the whips of heav'n are large enoughWhat! to you!

Whofe ftar-like nobleness gave life and influence To their whole being! I am rapt, and cannot Cover the monftrous bulk of this ingratitude With any fize of words.

Tim. Let it go naked, men may fee't the better: You that are honeft, 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 fweetly felt it.

Tim. Ay, you're honeft men.

Pain. We're hither come to offer you our fervice. Tim. Moft honeft men! why, how fhall I requite you?

Can you eat roots, and drink cold water? no.

Both. What we can do, we'll do, to do you fervice.

Tim. Y'are honest men; you've heard, that I have

gold;

I'm fure, you have; fpeak 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 best; Thou counterfeit'ft moft lively.

Pain. So, fo, my lord.

Tim. E'en fo, Sir, as I fay-And for thy fiction, Why, thy verse swells with fluff 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 I,
You take much pains to mend.

Both. Befeech your 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 thefe villains from your companies; Hang them, or ftab them, drown them in a draught, Confound them by fome curse, and come to me, I'll give you gold enough.

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