Well met, good morrow, Titus and Hortensius.

The like to you, kind Varro.

Lucius!

What, do we meet together?

Ay, and I think

One business does command us all;

For mine is money.

So is theirs and ours.

And, sir, Philotus too!

Good day at once.

Welcome, good brother.

What do you think the hour?

Labouring for nine.

So much?

Is not my lord seen yet?

Not yet.

I wonder on’t, he was wont to shine at seven.

Ay, but the days are waxed shorter with him.

You must consider that a prodigal course

Is like the sun’s, but not like his recoverable.

I fear ’tis deepest winter in Lord Timon’s purse:

That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet

Find little.

I am of your fear for that.

I’ll show you how t’ observe a strange event.

Your lord sends now for money?

Most true, he does.

And he wears jewels now of Timon’s gift,

For which I wait for money.

It is against my heart.

Mark how strange it shows,

Timon in this should pay more than he owes,

And e’en as if your lord should wear rich jewels

And send for money for ’em.

I’m weary of this charge, the gods can witness.

I know my lord hath spent of Timon’s wealth,

And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth.

Yes, mine’s three thousand crowns. What’s yours?

Five thousand mine.

’Tis much deep, and it should seem by th’ sum

Your master’s confidence was above mine,

Else surely his had equalled.

One of Lord Timon’s men.

Flaminius? Sir, a word. Pray, is my lord ready to come forth?

No, indeed he is not.

We attend his lordship; pray, signify so much.

I need not tell him that, he knows you are too diligent.

Ha, is not that his steward muffled so?

He goes away in a cloud. Call him, call him.

Do you hear, sir?

By your leave, sir.

What do you ask of me, my friend?

We wait for certain money here, sir.

Ay,

If money were as certain as your waiting,

’Twere sure enough.

Why then preferred you not your sums and bills

When your false masters eat of my lord’s meat?

Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts,

And take down th’ interest into their gluttonous maws.

You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up,

Let me pass quietly.

Believe’t, my lord and I have made an end,

I have no more to reckon, he to spend.

Ay, but this answer will not serve.

If ’twill not serve, ’tis not so base as you,

For you serve knaves.

How? What does his cashiered worship mutter?

No matter what, he’s poor, and that’s revenge enough. Who can speak

broader than he that has no house to put his head in? Such may rail

against great buildings.

O, here’s Servilius; now we shall know some answer.

If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other hour, I should

derive much from’t. For take’t of my soul, my lord leans wondrously to

discontent. His comfortable temper has forsook him, he’s much out of

health and keeps his chamber.

Many do keep their chambers are not sick.

And if it be so far beyond his health,

Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts

And make a clear way to the gods.

Good gods!

We cannot take this for answer, sir.

[_Within_.] Servilius, help! My lord, my lord!

What, are my doors opposed against my passage?

Have I been ever free, and must my house

Be my retentive enemy, my jail?

The place which I have feasted, does it now,

Like all mankind, show me an iron heart?

Put in now, Titus.

My lord, here is my bill.

Here’s mine.

And mine, my lord.

And ours, my lord.

All our bills.

Knock me down with ’em! Cleave me to the girdle.

Alas, my lord—

Cut my heart in sums!

Mine, fifty talents.

Tell out my blood.

Five thousand crowns, my lord.

Five thousand drops pays that. What yours, and yours?

My lord—

My lord—

Tear me, take me, and the gods fall upon you!

Faith, I perceive our masters may throw their caps at their money.

These debts may well be called desperate ones, for a madman owes ’em.

They have e’en put my breath from me, the slaves.

Creditors? Devils!

My dear lord—

What if it should be so?

My lord—

I’ll have it so.—My steward!

Here, my lord.

So fitly? Go, bid all my friends again,

Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius, all.

I’ll once more feast the rascals.

O my lord,

You only speak from your distracted soul;

There is not so much left to furnish out

A moderate table.

Be it not in thy care. Go,

I charge thee, invite them all. Let in the tide

Of knaves once more. My cook and I’ll provide.