What viler thing upon the earth, than friends, Those that would mischief me, than those that do! TIMON comes forward from his Cave. Tim. Away! what art thou? Flav. Have you forgot me, sir? Tim. Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men; Then, if thou grant'st thou'rt man, I have forgot thee. Flav. An honest poor servant of yours. Tim. Flav. Then The gods are witness, Ne'er did poor steward wear a truer grief For his undone lord, than mine eyes for you. Tim. What, dost thou weep?-Come nearer;-then Because thou art a woman, and disclaim'st But thorough lust, and laughter. Pity's sleeping: [ing! To accept my grief, and whilst this poor wealth lasts, To entertain me as your steward still. Tim. Had I a steward so true, so just, and now So comfortable? It almost turns My dangerous nature wild. Let me behold Thy face. Surely, this man was born of woman.- One honest man,-mistake me not,-but one; How fain would I have hated all mankind, Methinks, thou art more honest now, than wise; Thou might'st have sooner got another service: If not a usuring kindness; and as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in return twenty for one? Flav. No, my most worthy master, in whose breast Doubt and suspect, alas, are plac'd too late: You should have fear'd false times, when you did feast: That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love, Care of your food and living: and, believe it, For any benefit that points to me, Either in hope, or present, I'd exchange For this one wish, That you had power and wealth Tim. Look thee, 'tis so!-Thou singly honest man, Here, take:-the gods out of my misery Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich, and happy: But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone, What thou deny'st to men; let prisons swallow them, And may diseases lick up their false bloods! And so, farewell, and thrive. Flav. And comfort you, my master. O, let me stay, If thou hat'st 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 SCENE I. The sume. Before TIMON's Cave. 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 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. There fore, '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? 1 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 judgment 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 the day serves, before black-corner'd night, Tim. I'll meet you at the turn. What a god's gold, Than where swine feed! "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! Poet. Hail, worthy Timon! Pain. [Advancing. Our late noble master. Tim. Have I once liv'd to see two honest men? Having often of your open bounty tasted, Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall'n off, Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence With any size of words. Tim. Let it go naked, men may see't the better: 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. Tim. Good honest men:-Thou draw'st a counterfeit Best in all Athens: thou art, indeed, the best! Thou counterfeit'st most lively. Pain. Marry, 'tis not monstrous in you; neither wish I, Both. Beseech your honour, You'll take it ill. Will you, indeed? Both. Most thankfully, my lord. |