Part 24

Timon. Excellent Workeman, Thou canst not paint a man so badde As is thy selfe

Poet. I am thinking What I shall say I haue prouided for him: It must be a personating of himselfe: A Satyre against the softnesse of Prosperity, With a Discouerie of the infinite Flatteries That follow youth and opulencie

Timon. Must thou needes Stand for a Villaine in thine owne Worke? Wilt thou whip thine owne faults in other men? Do so, I haue Gold for thee

Poet. Nay let's seeke him. Then do we sinne against our owne estate, When we may profit meete, and come too late

Painter. True: When the day serues before blacke-corner'd night; Finde what thou want'st, by free and offer'd light. Come

Tim. Ile meete you at the turne: What a Gods Gold, that he is worshipt In a baser Temple, then where Swine feede? 'Tis thou that rigg'st the Barke, and plow'st the Fome, Setlest admired reuerence in a Slaue, To thee be worshipt, and thy Saints for aye: Be crown'd with Plagues, that thee alone obay. Fit I meet them

Poet. Haile worthy Timon

Pain. Our late Noble Master

Timon. Haue I once liu'd To see two honest men? Poet. Sir: Hauing often of your open Bounty tasted, Hearing you were retyr'd, your Friends falne off, Whose thankelesse Natures (O abhorred Spirits) Not all the Whippes of Heauen, are large enough. What, to you, Whose Starre-like Noblenesse gaue life and influence To their whole being? I am rapt, and cannot couet The monstrous bulke of this Ingratitude With any size of words

Timon. Let it go, Naked men may see't the better: You that are honest, by being what you are, Make them best seene, and knowne

Pain. He, and my selfe Haue trauail'd in the great showre of your guifts, And sweetly felt it

Timon. I, you are honest man

Painter. We are hither come To offer you our seruice

Timon. Most honest men: Why how shall I requite you? Can you eate Roots, and drinke cold water, no? Both. What we can do, Wee'l do to do you seruice

Tim. Y'are honest men, Y'haue heard that I haue Gold, I am sure you haue, speake truth, y'are honest men

Pain. So it is said my Noble Lord, but therefore Came not my Friend, nor I

Timon. Good honest men: Thou draw'st a counterfet Best in all Athens, th'art indeed the best, Thou counterfet'st most liuely

Pain. So, so, my Lord

Tim. E'ne so sir as I say. And for thy fiction, Why thy Verse swels with stuffe so fine and smooth, That thou art euen Naturall in thine Art. But for all this (my honest Natur'd friends) I must needs say you haue a little fault, Marry 'tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I You take much paines to mend

Both. Beseech your Honour To make it knowne to vs

Tim. You'l take it ill

Both. Most thankefully, my Lord

Timon. Will you indeed? Both. Doubt it not worthy Lord

Tim. There's neuer a one of you but trusts a Knaue, That mightily deceiues you

Both. Do we, my Lord? Tim. I, and you heare him cogge, See him dissemble, Know his grosse patchery, loue him, feede him, Keepe in your bosome, yet remaine assur'd That he's a made-vp-Villaine

Pain. I know none such, my Lord

Poet. Nor I

Timon. Looke you, I loue you well, Ile giue you Gold Rid me these Villaines from your companies; Hang them, or stab them, drowne them in a draught, Confound them by some course, and come to me, Ile giue you Gold enough