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 bestowed!
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 wished to love his enemies!
Grant I may ever love, and rather woo
Those that would mischief me than those that do!
He 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,
T’ 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,
A usuring kindness and as rich men deal gifts,
Expecting in return twenty for one?