Ne'er did poor steward wear a truer grief Because thou art a woman, and disclaim'st Flav. I beg of you to know me, good my lord, 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; Methinks, thou art more honest now, than wise; Thou might'st have sooner got another service: Upon their first lord's neck. But tell me true, If not a usuring kindness; and as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in return twenty for one? It almost turns My dangerous nature wild.] To turn wild is to distract. An appearance so unexpected, says Timon, almost turns my savageness to distraction. 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: Suspect still comes where an estate is least. 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 To requite me, by making rich yourself. 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 so, farewell, and thrive. Flav. And comfort you, my master. Tim. 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. -from men ;] Away from human habitations. ACT V. SCENE I. The same. 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. 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 3 the deed of saying is quite out of use.] The doing of that which we have said we would do, the accomplishment and performance 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, That he is worshipp'd in a baser temple, 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! '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, of our promise, is, except among the lower classes of mankind, quite out of use. Whose thankless natures-O abhorred spirits! Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence 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 service. Tim. You are honest men: You have heard that 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 coun terfeit 4 Best in all Athens: thou art, indeed, the best; 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, a counterfeit -] A portrait was so called in our author's |