Enter Poet and Painter.
PAINTER.
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?
PAINTER.
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?
PAINTER.
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 travail for, if it be a just and true report
that goes of his having.
POET.
What have you now to present unto him?
PAINTER.
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.
PAINTER.
Good as the best. Promising 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 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.
Enter Timon from his cave.
TIMON.
[Aside.] 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.
TIMON.
[Aside.] 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 we may profit meet and come too late.
PAINTER.
True.
When the day serves, before black-cornered night,
Find what thou want’st by free and offered light.
Come.
TIMON.
[Aside.] I’ll meet you at the turn. What a god’s gold,
That he is worshipped 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 crowned with plagues, that thee alone obey!
Fit I meet them.
[He comes forward.]
POET.
Hail, worthy Timon!
PAINTER.
Our late noble master!
TIMON.
Have I once lived to see two honest men?
POET.
Sir,
Having often of your open bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retired, your friends fall’n off,
Whose thankless natures—O abhorred spirits!
Not all the whips of heaven are large enough—
What, to you,
Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence
To their whole being? I am rapt and cannot cover
The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude
With any size of words.
TIMON.
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.
PAINTER.
He and myself
Have travailed in the great shower of your gifts,
And sweetly felt it.
TIMON.
Ay, you are honest men.
PAINTER.
We are hither come to offer you our service.
TIMON.
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.
TIMON.
Ye’re honest men. Ye’ve heard that I have gold,
I am sure you have. Speak truth, you’re honest men.
PAINTER.
So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore
Came not my friend nor I.
TIMON.
Good honest men! [To Painter.] Thou draw’st a counterfeit
Best in all Athens. Thou’rt indeed the best,
Thou counterfeit’st most lively.
PAINTER.
So so, my lord.
TIMON.
E’en so, sir, as I say. [To the Poet.] And for thy fiction,
Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth
That thou art even natural in thine art.
But for all this, my honest-natured friends,
I must needs say you have a little fault.
Marry, ’tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I
You take much pains to mend.
BOTH.
Beseech your honour
To make it known to us.
TIMON.
You’ll take it ill.
BOTH.
Most thankfully, my lord.
TIMON.
Will you indeed?
BOTH.
Doubt it not, worthy lord.
TIMON.
There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave
That mightily deceives you.
BOTH.
Do we, my lord?
TIMON.
Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,
Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,
Keep in your bosom, yet remain assured
That he’s a made-up villain.
PAINTER.
I know not such, my lord.
POET.
Nor I.
TIMON.
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 some course, and come to me,
I’ll give you gold enough.
BOTH.
Name them, my lord, let’s know them.
TIMON.
You that way, and you this, but two in company.
Each man apart, all single and alone,
Yet an arch-villain keeps him company.
[To one.] If where thou art, two villians shall not be,
Come not near him. [To the other.] If thou wouldst not reside
But where one villain is, then him abandon.
Hence, pack! There’s gold. You came for gold, ye slaves.
[To one.] You have work for me, there’s payment, hence!
[To the other.] You are an alchemist; make gold of that.
Out, rascal dogs!
[Timon drives them out and then retires to his cave]
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