As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides.

What’s to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true that he is

so full of gold?

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.

Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his friends?

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.

What have you now to present unto him?

Nothing at this time but my visitation; only I will promise him an

excellent piece.

I must serve him so too, tell him of an intent that’s coming toward

him.

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.

[_Aside_.] Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man so bad as is

thyself.

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.

[_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.

Nay, let’s seek him.

Then do we sin against our own estate

When we may profit meet and come too late.

True.

When the day serves, before black-cornered night,

Find what thou want’st by free and offered light.

Come.

[_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.

Hail, worthy Timon!

Our late noble master!

Have I once lived to see two honest men?

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.

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.

He and myself

Have travailed in the great shower of your gifts,

And sweetly felt it.

Ay, you are honest men.

We are hither come to offer you our service.

Most honest men! Why, how shall I requite you?

Can you eat roots and drink cold water? No?

What we can do we’ll do, to do you service.

Ye’re honest men. Ye’ve heard that I have gold,

I am sure you have. Speak truth, you’re honest men.

So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore

Came not my friend nor I.

Good honest men! [_To Painter_.] Thou draw’st a counterfeit

Best in all Athens. Thou’rt indeed the best,

Thou counterfeit’st most lively.

So so, my lord.

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.

Beseech your honour

To make it known to us.

You’ll take it ill.

Most thankfully, my lord.

Will you indeed?

Doubt it not, worthy lord.

There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave

That mightily deceives you.

Do we, my lord?

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.

I know not such, my lord.

Nor I.

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.

Name them, my lord, let’s know them.

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!