TIMON OF ATHENS. ACT I. PAINTING. The painting is almost the natural man; For since dishonour traffics with man's nature, He is but outside: These pencil'd figures are Even such as they give out *. THE PLEASURE OF DOING GOOD. O, you gods, think I, what need we have any friends, if we should never have need of them? they were the most needless creatures living, should we ne'er have use for them: and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer, that I might come nearer to you, We are born to do benefits: and what better or pro perer can we call our own, than the riches of our friends? O, what a precious comfort 'tis, to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another's fortunes! ACT II. A FAITHFUL STEWARD. So the gods bless me, When all our offices + have been oppress'd Pictures have no hypocrisy; they are what they profess to be. + The apartments allotted to culinary offices, &c. With drunken spilth of wine; when every room Hath blaz'd with lights, and bray'd with minstrelsy; I have retir'd me to a wasteful cock*, They answer, in a joint and corporate voice, That now they are at fallt, want treasure, cannot Do what they would; are sorry-you are honourable, But yet they could have wish'd-they know notbut Something hath been amiss a noble nature May catch a wrench-would all were well-'tis pity And so, intending ‡ other serious matters, After distasteful looks, and these hard fractions §, With certain half-caps, and cold-moving nods, They froze me into silence. ACT III. THE MISERABLE SHIFTS OF INGRATITUDE. Ser. My honoured lord,[To LUCIUS. Luc. Servilius! you are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well: Commend me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend. Sor. May it please your honour, my lord hath sent Luc. Ha! what has he sent? I am so much endeared to that lord; he's ever sending: How shall I thank him, thinkest thou? And what has he sent now? Ser. He has only sent his present occasion now, A pipe with a turning stopple running to waste. +2. e. At an ebb. Intending, had anciently the same meaning as attending. E V my lord; requesting your lordship to supply his instant use with so many talents. Luc. I know, his lordship is but merry with me; He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents. Ser. But in the mean time he wants less, my lord. If his occasion were not virtuous*, I should not urge it half so faithfully. Luc. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius? Luc. What a wicked beast was I, to disfurnish myself against such a good time, when I might have shown myself honourable? how unluckily it happened, that I should purchase the day before for a little part, and undo a great deal of honour-Servilius, now before the gods, I am not able to do't; the more beast, I say: I was sending to use lord Timon myself, these gentlemen can witness; but I would not, for the wealth of Athens, I had done it now. Commend me bountifully to his good lordship; and I hope, his honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I have no power to be kind: And tell him this from me, I count it, one of my greatest afflictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an honourable gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me so far, as to use mine own words to him? Ser. Yes, sir, I shall. Luc. I will look you out a good turn, Servilius. [Exit SERVILIUS. True, as you said, Timon is shrunk, indeed; And he, that's once denied, will hardly speed. AGAINST DUELLING. [Exit. Your words have took such pains, as if they la To bring manslaughter into form, set quarrelling "If he did not want it for a good use." The worst that man can breathe; and make hit wrongs His outsides; wear them like his raiment, carelessly; ACT IV. TIMON'S EXECRATION OF THE ATHENIANS. Do't in your parent's eyes! bankrupts, hold fast; On Athens, ripe for stroke! thou cold sciatica, *Common sewers. e. Contrarieties, whose nature it is to waste or destroy + For libertinism. each other. ki Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth; A FRIEND FORSAKEN. As we do turn our backs From our companion, thrown into his grave: With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty, ON GOLD. Earth, yield me roots! Wrong, right; base, noble; old, young; coward, Ha, you gods! why this? What this, you gods? Will lug your priests and servants from your sides; Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd; No insincere or inconstant supplicant Gold will not |