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 Steward ftill.

Tim. Had I a Steward

So true, fo juft, and now fo comfortable?
It almost turns my dangerous Nature wild.
Let me behold thy Face: Surely, this Man
Was born of Woman.

Forgive my general, and exceptlefs rashness
You perpetual fober Gods. I do proclaim
One honest Man; Miftake 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 thy felf: But all fave thee,
I fell with Curfes.

Methinks thou art more honeft now than wife:
For, by oppreffing and betraying me,

Thou might'ft have fooner got another Service.
For many fo arrive at fecond Mafters,

Upon their firft Lord's Neck. But tell me true,
For I must ever doubt, though ne'er so sure,
Is not thy kindness fubtle, covetous,

Is't not a ufuring Kindness, and as rich Men deal Gifts,
Expecting in return twenty for one?

Flav. No, my moft worthy Mafter, in whofe Breaft
Doubt and Sufpect, alas, are plac'd too late,

You should have fear'd falfe times, when you did feast;
Sufpe& ftill comes where an Eftate is least.

That which I fhew, Heav'n knows, is meerly Love,

Duty, and Zeal, to your unmatched Mind,

Care of your Food and Living: And believe it,
My moft honour'd Lord,

For any benefit that points to me,

Either in hope, or prefent, I'd exchange

For this one With, that you had power and wealth
To requite me, by making rich your felf.

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

Hate all, Curfe all, fhew Charity to none,
But let the famisht Flesh slide from the Bone,
E'er thou relieve the Beggar. Give to Dogs

What thou deny'ft to Men. Let Prifons fwallow 'em,
Debts wither 'em to nothing, be Men like blafted Woods
And may Diseases lick up their falfe Bloods,

And fo farewel, and thrive.

Flav. O let me stay and comfort you my Mafter.

Tim. If thou hat'ft Curfes,

Stay not; Fly, whilft thou art bleft and free:

Ne'er fee thou Man, and let me ne'er fee thee.

Enter Poet and Painter.

[Exeunt.

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's fo full of Gold?

Pain. Certain.

Alcibiades reports it: Phrinia and Timandra
Had Gold of him, he likewise enrich'd
Poor ftragling Soldiers, with great quantity.
'Tis faid, 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 higheft.

Therefore, 'tis not amifs, we tender our Loves

To him, in this fuppos'd distress of his :

It will fhew honeftly in us,

And is very likely to load our purposes

With what they travail for,

If it be a juft and true Report, that

Of his having.

Poet. What have you now

To prefent unto him?

Pain. Nothing at this time

goes

But my Vifitation: Only I will promise him

An excellent Piece.

Poet.

Poet. I muft ferve him fo too;

Tell him of an intent that's coming toward him.

Pain. Good as the best,

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 of Saying is quite out of use.

To promife, is moft Courtly and Fashionable;
Performance is a kind of Will or Teftament,
Which argues a great Sicknefs in his Judgment
That makes it.

Enter Timon from his Cave.

Tim. Excellent Workman,

Thou canst not paint a Man fo bad
As is thy felf.

Poet. I am thinking

What I fhall fay I have provided for him:
It must be a perfonating of himself;
A Satyr against the softness of Profperity,
With a Difcovery of the infinite Flatteries
That follow Youth and Opulency.

Tim. Muft thou needs

Stand 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 Sin against our own Estate,
When we may profit meet, and come too late.

Pain. True:

When 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 worshipt

In a bafer Temple, than where Swine feed?

'Tis thou that rigg'ft the Bark, and plow'ft the Fome, Setleft admired reverence in a Slave,

To thee be worship, and thy Saints for

aye:

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

Poet.

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 faln off,
Whose thanklefs Natures, Oh abhorred Spirits!
Not all the Whips of Heaven are large enough-
What! to you!

Whofe Star-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 my self,

Have travell'd in the

And sweetly felt it.

your Gifts,

Tim. Ay, you are honeft Men.

Pain. We are hither come

To offer you our Service.

Tim. Moft honest 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 Service.

Tim. Y'are honeft Men;

You've heard that I have Gold,

I am 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 Verfe fwells with ftuff fo fine and smooth, That thou art even Natural in thine Art.

VOL. V.

L

But

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

Both. Befeeeh 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 never 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, feed him,

Keep him in your Bofom, 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,

1

Rid me thefe Villains from your Companies;

Hang them, or ftab them, drown them in the draught,
Confound them by fome Courfe, and come to me,

I'll give you Gold enough.

Both. Name them, my Lord, let's know them.
Tim. You that way, and you this;

But two in Company:

Each Man apart, all fingle and alone,

Yet an arch Villain keeps him Company:

If where thou art, two Villains fhall not be,

Come not near him. If thou would'ft not refide

But where one Villain is, then him abandon.

Hence, pack, there's Gold, ye came for Gold ye Slaves: You have work for me; there's Payment, thence,

You are an Alchymift, make Gold of that:

Out Rafcal Dogs.

[Beating and driving 'em out.

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