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So true, so juft, and now so comfortable ?
Fla. No, my moft worthy master, (in whofe breast
power and wealth To requite me by making rich your self.
Tim. Look thee, 'tis so ; thou singly honest man, Here, take; the Gods out of my misery Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy : But thus condition'd ; Thou shalt build from men : Hate all, curse all, shew charity to none ; But let the famifht flesh slide from the bone, Ere thou relieve the beggar. Give to dogs What thou deny'st to men. Let prisons swallow 'em, Debts wither 'em ; be men like blasted woods,
their falfe bloods ! And so farewel, and thrive.
Fla. O, let me stay, and comfort you, my Master.
Tim, If thou hat'st curses,
Poet. What's to be thought of him? does the ru. mour hold for true, that he's so full of gold?
Pain. Certain. Alcibiades reports it: Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him : he likewise enrich'd poor ftragling soldiers with great quantity. 'Tis said, he gave his steward a mighty sum.
Poet. Then this breaking of his has been but a tryal of his friends ?
Pain. 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 suppos’d distress of his : it will shew honestly in us, and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travel for, if it be a just and true report that goes of his Having.
Poet. What have you now to present unto him?
Pain. 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.
Pain. 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 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.
Re-enter Timon from his Cave, unseen. Tim. Excellent workman! thou canst not paint a man so bad as thy self.
Poet. I am thinking, what I shall say I have provided for him: it must be a personating of himself; a fatyr against the softness of prosperity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency.
Tim. 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.
Pain. True :
Tim. I'll meet you at the turn
Poet. Hail ! worthy Timon,
(28) While the day serves, &c.] This Couplet in all the · Editions is placed to the Painter, but, as it is in Rhyme, and a Sequel of the Sentiment begun by the Poet, I have made. no Scruple to ascribe it to him.
(29) 'Tis thou that rigg's the Bark; and plow's the Foam, Setilest admired Rev’rence in a Slave; ] As both the Couplet preceding, and following this, are in Rhyme, I am very apt to suspect, the Rhyme is dismounted here by an accidental Corruption; and therefore have ventur’d to replace Wave in the Room of Foam,
Poet. Sir, having often of your bounty tasted,
Tim. Let it go naked, men may fee't the better: (30)
Pain. He, and my self,
Tim, Ay, you're honeft men.
Tim. Most honest men ! why, how shall I requite you!
service. Tim. Y' are honeft men ; you've heard, that I have
gold ; I'm sure, you have; speak truth, y' are honest men.
Pain. so it is said, my noble lord, but therefore Came not my friend, nor 1.
Tim. Good honest man ; thou draw't a counterfeit Best in all Athens ; thou’rt, indeed, the best Thou counterfeit'st most lively.
(30) Let it go, naked Men may feet the-better-;] Thus has Thiş Passage been stupidly pointed thro' all the Editions, as if naked Men could see better than Men in their Cloaths. I, think verily, if there were any Room to credit the Experiment, such Editors ought to go naked for the Improvement of their Eye-lights. But, perhaps, they have as little Faith as Judgement in their own Readings. The Poet, in the preceding Speech baranguing on the Ingratitude of Timon's falseFriends, fays, he cannos, cover the Monstrousness of iç with. any, Size of Words; to which Timon, as I have re&ified the Pointing, very aptly replies; Let it go naked Men may. See't the better,
pain. So, fo, my lord.
Tim. E'en fo, Sir, as I say - And for thy fiction,
Both. Beseech your Honour
Tim. You'll take it ill.
Tim. There's ne'er a one of you but trusts a knave,
Both. Do we, my lord ?
Tim. Ay, and you hear him cogg, see him diffemble,
Pain. I know none such, my lord.
Tim. Look you, I love you well, I'll give you gold,
Botb. Name them, my lord, let's know them.
[To the Painter, Come not near him. If thou wouldft not refide
[To the Poet.