Timon of Athens

a man may be true. Exeunt Banditti. Enter Flavius. Flavius

O you gods!
Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord?
Full of decay and failing? O monument
And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow’d!
What an alteration of honour
Has desperate want made!
What viler thing upon the earth than friends
Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends!
How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise,
When man was wish’d to love his enemies!
Grant I may ever love, and rather woo
Those that would mischief me than those that do!
Has caught me in his eye: I will present
My honest grief unto him; and, as my lord,
Still serve him with my life. My dearest master!

Timon Away! what art thou? Flavius Have you forgot me, sir? Timon

Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men;
Then, if thou grant’st thou’rt a man, I have forgot thee.

Flavius An honest poor servant of yours. Timon

Then I know thee not:
I never had honest man about me, I; all
I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains.

Flavius

The gods are witness,
Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief
For his undone lord than mine eyes for you.

Timon

What, dost thou weep? Come nearer. Then I love thee,
Because thou art a woman, and disclaim’st
Flinty mankind; whose eyes do never give
But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping:
Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with weeping!

Flavius

I beg of you to know me, good my lord,
To accept my grief and whilst this poor wealth lasts
To entertain me as your steward still.

Timon

Had I a steward
So true, so just, and now so comfortable?
It almost turns my dangerous nature mild.
Let me behold thy face. Surely, this man
Was born of woman.
Forgive my general and exceptless rashness,
You perpetual-sober gods! I do proclaim
One honest man⁠—mistake me not⁠—but one;
No more, I pray⁠—and he’s a steward.
How fain would I have hated all mankind!
And thou redeem’st thyself: but all, save thee,
I fell with curses.
Methinks thou art more honest now than wise;
For, by oppressing and betraying me,
Thou mightst have sooner got another service:
For many so arrive at second masters,
Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true⁠—
For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure⁠—
Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous,
If not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men deal gifts,
Expecting in return twenty for one?

Flavius

No, my most worthy master; in whose breast
Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late:
You should have fear’d false times when you did feast:
Suspect still comes where an estate is least.
That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,
Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind,
Care of your food and living; and, believe it,
My most honour’d lord,
For any benefit that points to me,
Either in hope or present, I’ld exchange
For this one wish, that you had power and wealth
To requite me, by making rich yourself.

Timon

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, show charity to none,
But let the famish’d 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 to nothing; be men like blasted woods,
And may diseases lick up their false bloods!
And so farewell and thrive.

Flavius

O, let me stay,
And comfort you, my master.

Timon

If thou hatest curses,
Stay not; fly, whilst thou art blest and free:
Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee. Exit Flavius. Timon retires to his cave.

Act V

Scene I

The woods. Before Timon’s cave.

	Enter Poet and Painter; Timon watching them from his cave.
Painter	As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides.
Poet	What’s to be thought of him? does the rumour hold for true, that he’s so full of gold?
Painter	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.
Poet	Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his friends.
Painter	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 true report that goes of his having.
Poet	What have you now to present unto him?
Painter	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.
Painter	Good as the best. Promising is the very air o’ the 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. Timon comes from his cave, behind.
Timon	Aside. Excellent workman! thou canst not paint a man so bad as is thyself.
Poet	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.
Timon	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.
Poet	Nay, let’s seek him: Then do we sin against our own estate, When we may profit meet, and come too late.
Painter	True; When the day serves, before black-corner’d night, Find what thou want’st by free and offer’d light. Come.
Timon	Aside. I’ll meet you at the turn. What a