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-cornered night,
Find what thou want’st by free and offered light.
Come.
TIMON.
[Aside.] I’ll meet you at the turn. What a god’s gold,
That he is worshipped in a baser temple
Than where swine feed!
’Tis thou that rigg’st the bark and plough’st the foam,
Settlest admired reverence in a slave.
To thee be worship, and thy saints for aye
Be crowned with plagues, that thee alone obey!
Fit I meet them.
[He comes forward.]
POET.
Hail, worthy Timon!
PAINTER.
Our late noble master!
TIMON.
Have I once lived to see two honest men?
POET.
Sir,
Having often of your open bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retired, your friends fall’n off,
Whose thankless natures—O abhorred spirits!
Not all the whips of heaven 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 monstrous bulk 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 seen and known.