For any benefit that points to me
Either in hope, or prefent, I'd exchange
For this one with, that you had power and wealth
To requite me by making rich your felf.

Tim. Look thee, 'tis fo; thou fingly honeft man,
Here, take; the Gods out of my misery

Have fent thee treafure. Go, live rich and happy:
But thus condition'd; Thou fhalt build from men:
Hate all, curfe all, fhew charity to none;

But let the famifht flesh flide from the bone,
Ere thou relieve the beggar. Give to dogs
What thou deny❜ft to men.

Let prisons swallow 'em,
Debts wither 'em; be men like blafted woods,
And may diseases lick up their false bloods!

And fo farewel, and thrive.

Fla. O, let me ftay, and comfort you, my Master.
Tim. If thou hat'ft curfes,

Stay not, but fly, whilst 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's 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 distress 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 just 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 interst that's coming toward him.

Pain. Good as the beft: Promifing 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 fimpler kind of people, the deed is quite out of use. 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, unfeen.

Tim. Excellent workman! thou canst not paint a man so bad as thy felf.

Poet. I am thinking, what I fhall fay I have provided for him: it must be a perfonating of himfelf; a fatyr against the softness of profperity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency..

Tim. Muft thou needs ftand 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 eftate,

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 Swine do feed!

'Tis thou that rigg'ft the bark, and plow'ft the Wave, (36) Settleft admired rev'rence in a slave;

Το

(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 Sequel of the Sentiment begun by the Poet, I have made no Scruple to afcribe it to him. (36) 'Tis thou that rigg'ft the Bark, and plowft the Foam, Setileft admired Rev'rence in a Slave ;] As both the Couplet preceding,

and

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 master.

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,
Whose thankless natures, oh abhorred spirits!
Not all the whips of heav'n 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 monftrous bulk of this ingratitude
With any fize of words.

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

Make them best seen and known.

Pain. He, and my self,

Have travell❜d in the great fhower of your gifts,
And sweetly felt it.

Tim. Ay, you're honest men.

Pain. 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.

and following this, are in Rhyme, I 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,

(37) Let it go, naked Men may fee't the better ;] Thus has this Paffage been stupidly 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 preceeding Speech haranguing on the Ingratitude of Timon's falfe Friends, fays, he cannot cover the Monftroufness of it with any Size 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.

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 honest man; thou draw'st a counterfeit
Best in all Athens; thou'rt, indeed, the best;
Thou counterfeit'ft most lively.

Pain. So, fo, my lord.

Tim. E'en fo, Sir, as I fay-And for thy fiction,
Why, thy verse fwells with ftuff fo fine and fmooth,
That thou art even natural in thine art.

But for all this, my honeft-natur'd friends,
I must needs fay, you have a little fault;
Marry, not monftrous in you; neither wish I,
You take much pains to mend.

Both. Befeech your Honour

To make it known to us.

Tim. You'll take it ill.

Both. Most thankfully, my lord.

Tim. Will you, indeed?

Both. Doubt it not, worthy lord.

Tim. There's ne'er a one of you but trusts 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 there villains from your companies;

Hang them, or ftab them, drown them in a draught,
Confound them by fome courfe, and come to me,

I'll give you gold enough.

Bob. Name them, my lord, let's know them.
Tim. You that way, and you this;

Each man apart, all fingle and alone,

Yet an arch villain keeps him company,

-but two in com

[pany:

If

If where thou art, two villains shall not be,

[To the Painter.

Come not near him.--If thou wouldft not 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:

Out, rafcal dogs!

[Beating and driving 'em out.

Enter Flavius and two Senators.

Fla. It is in vain that you would speak with Timon:
For he is fet fo only to himself,

That nothing but himself, which looks like man,
Is friendly with him.

1 Sen. Bring us to his Cave.

It is our part and promife to th' Athenians
To speak with Timon.

2 Sen. At all times alike

Men are not still the fame; 'twas time and griefs
That fram'd him thus. Time, with his fairer hand
Offering the fortunes of his former days,

The former man may make him; bring us to him,
And chance it as it may..

Fla. Here is his Cave:

Peace and Content be here, lord Timon! Timon!
Look out, and fpeak to friends: th' Athenians
By two of their most rev'rend fenate greet thee;
Speak to them, noble Timon.

Enter Timon out of his Cave:

Tim. Thou Sun, that comfort'ft, burn!

Speak, and be hang'd;

For each true word a blifter, and each false

Be cauterizing to the root o'th' tongue,

Confuming it with speaking.

1 Sen. Worthy Timon,

Tim. Of none but fuch as you, and you of Timon. 2 Sen. The fenators of Athens greet thee, Timon.