POET.
[Presenting his poem.]
Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship.
TIMON.
I thank you, you shall hear from me anon.
Go not away.—What have you there, my friend?
PAINTER.
A piece of painting, which I do beseech
Your lordship to accept.
TIMON.
Painting is welcome.
The painting is almost the natural man,
For since dishonour traffics with man’s nature,
He is but outside; these pencilled figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work,
And you shall find I like it. Wait attendance
Till you hear further from me.
PAINTER.
The gods preserve you.
TIMON.
Well fare you, gentleman. Give me your hand.
We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel
Hath suffered under praise.
JEWELLER.
What, my lord, dispraise?
TIMON.
A mere satiety of commendations.
If I should pay you for ’t as ’tis extolled,
It would unclew me quite.
JEWELLER.
My lord, ’tis rated
As those which sell would give. But you well know
Things of like value, differing in the owners,
Are prized by their masters. Believe’t, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by the wearing it.
TIMON.
Well mocked.