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 still.

Tim. Had I a steward

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

Forgive my gen❜ral and exceptlefs rafhness,
Perpetual, fober gods! I do proclaim
One honeft 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 thyfelf: 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 fervice:
For many fo arrive at second 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,

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

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

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

Sufpect ftill comes, where an eftate is least.

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 honeft man, Here, take; the gods out of my mifery

Have sent 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 famish'd flesh slide from the bone,
Ere thou relieve the beggar. Give to dogs
What thou deny'st to men. Let prifons fwallow 'em,
Debts wither 'em; 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 master.
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.

Enter Poet and Painter.

[Exeunt feverally.

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

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

Pain. Nothing elfe: 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 prefent 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.

Pain. Good as the beft: Promifing is the very air o' th' time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performánce is ever the duller for his act, and, but in the

plainer

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 teftament, which argues a great ficknefs 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 thyfe f.

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

Tim. Muft thou needs ftard 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 seek him.

Then do we fin against our own estate,

When we may profit meet, and come too late.
Pain. True.

Poet. While the day ferves, before black-corner'd night, (35)

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 fwine do feed!

'Tis thou that rigg'it the bark, and plow'ft the wave, (36)

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.

Poet. Hail! worthy Timon.

Pain. Our late noble mafter.

(35) While the day ferves, &c.] This couplet in all the editions is placed to the painter, but, as it is in rhyme, and a fequel of the fentiment begun by the poet, I have made no fcruple to afcribe it to him. (36) 'Tis thou that rigg 'ft the bark, and plow'ft the foam, Settleft admired rev'rence in a flave,] As both the couplet preceding, and following this, are in rhyme, am very apt to fufpect, the rhyme is difmounted here by an accidental corruption; and therefore have ventur'd to replace wave in the room of foam.

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, fal'n off,
Whofe thankless natures, oh abhorred spirits!
Not all the whips of heav'n are large enough-
What! to you!

Whofe ftar-like noblenefs 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.

1

Tim. Let it go naked, men may fee't the better: (37) You that are honeft, by being what you are, Make them beft feen and known.

Pain. He, and myself,

Have travell'd in the great shower of your gifts,
And sweetly felt it.

Tim. Ay, you're honest men.

Patn. We're hither come to offer you our service. Tim. Most 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 honeft 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 beft; Thou counterfeit'ft most lively.

Pain. So, fo, my Lord.

(37) Let it go, naked men may fee't the better;] Thus has this paf fage been ftupidly pointed thro' all the editions, as if naked men could fee better than men in their cloaths. I think verily, if there were any room to credit the experiment, fuch editors ought to go naked for the improvement of their eye-fights. But, perhaps, they have as little faith as judgment in their own readings. The poet, in the preceding fpeech haranguing on the ingratitude of Timon's falfe friends, fays, he cannot cover the monftroufness of it with any fize of words; to which Timon, as I have rectified the pointing, very aptly replies; Let it go naked, -men may fee't the better. So, our poet in his Much Ado about Nothing.

Why feekft thou then to cover with excufe
That, which appears in proper nakedness.

Tim

Tim. E'en fo, Sir, as I fay-And for thy fiction,
Why, thy verfe fwells with stuff so 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 with 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 trufts 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 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, Rid me thefe villains from your companies;

Hang them, or flab them, drown them in a 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, [To the Painter.
Come not near him.—if thou wouldftnct refide [To the Poet.
But where one villain is, then him abandon.

Hence, pack, there's gold; ye came for gold, ye flaves;
You have work for me; there's your payment, hence!
You are an alchymift, make gold of that:
[Beating and driving 'em out.

Out, rafcal dogs!

Enter