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:
|
Painter |
True;
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Timon |
Aside. I’ll meet you at the turn. What a god’s gold,
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Poet | Hail, worthy Timon! |
Painter | Our late noble master! |
Timon | Have I once lived to see two honest men? |
Poet |
Sir,
|
Timon |
Let it go naked, men may see’t the better:
|
Painter |
He and myself
|
Timon | Ay, you are honest men. |
Painter | We are hither come to offer you our service. |
Timon |
Most honest men! Why, how shall I requite you?
|
Both | What we can do, we’ll do, to do you service. |
Timon |
Ye’re honest men: ye’ve heard that I have gold;
|
Painter |
So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore
|
Timon |
Good honest men! Thou draw’st a counterfeit
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Painter | So, so, my lord. |
Timon |
E’en so, sir, as I say. And, for thy fiction,
|
Both |
Beseech your honour
|
Timon | You’ll take it ill. |
Both | Most thankfully, my lord. |
Timon | Will you, indeed? |
Both | Doubt it not, worthy lord. |
Timon |
There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave,
|
Both | Do we, my lord? |
Timon |
Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,
|
Painter | I know none such, my lord. |
Poet | Nor I. |
Timon |
Look you, I love you well; I’ll give you gold,
|
Both | Name them, my lord, let’s know them. |
Timon |
You that way and you this, but two in company;
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Enter Flavius and two Senators. | |
Flavius |
It is in vain that you would speak with Timon;
|
First Senator |
Bring us to his cave:
|
Second Senator |
At all times alike
|
Flavius |
Here is his cave.
|
Timon comes from his cave. | |
Timon |
Thou sun, that comfort’st, burn! Speak, and be hang’d:
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First Senator | Worthy Timon— |
Timon | Of none but such as you, and you of Timon. |
First Senator | The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon. |
Timon |
I thank them; and would send them back the plague,
|
First Senator |
O, forget
|
Second Senator |
They confess
|
Timon |
You witch me in it;
|
First Senator |
Therefore, so please thee to return with us
|
Second Senator |
And shakes his threatening sword
|
First Senator | Therefore, Timon— |
Timon |
Well, sir, I will; therefore, I will, sir; thus:
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Flavius | Stay not, all’s in vain. |
Timon |
Why, I was writing of my epitaph;
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First Senator | We speak in vain. |
Timon |
But yet I love my country, and am not
|
First Senator | That’s well spoke. |
Timon | Commend me to my loving countrymen— |
First Senator | These words become your lips as they pass thorough them. |
Second Senator |
And enter in our ears like great triumphers
|
Timon |
Commend me to them,
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First Senator | I like this well; he will return again. |
Timon |
I have a tree, which grows here in my close,
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Flavius | Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him. |
Timon |
Come not to me again: but say to Athens,
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First Senator |
His discontents are unremoveably
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Second Senator |
Our hope in him is dead: let us return,
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First Senator | It requires swift foot. Exeunt. |
Scene II
Before the walls of Athens.
Enter two Senators and a Messenger. | |
First Senator |
Thou hast painfully discover’d: are his files
|
Messenger |
I have spoke the least:
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Second Senator | We stand much hazard, if they bring not Timon. |
Messenger |
I met a courier, one mine ancient friend;
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First Senator | Here come our brothers. |
Enter the Senators from Timon. | |
Third Senator |
No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect.
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Scene III
The woods. Timon’s cave, and a rude tomb seen.
Enter a Soldier, seeking Timon. | |
Soldier |
By all description this should be the place.
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Scene IV
Before the walls of Athens.
Trumpets sound. Enter Alcibiades with his powers. | |
Alcibiades |
Sound to this coward and lascivious town
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Enter Senators on the walls. | |
Till now you have gone on and fill’d the time
|
|
First Senator |
Noble and young,
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Second Senator |
So did we woo
|
First Senator |
These walls of ours
|
Second Senator |
Nor are they living
|
First Senator |
All have not offended;
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Second Senator |
What thou wilt,
|
First Senator |
Set but thy foot
|
Second Senator |
Throw thy glove,
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Alcibiades |
Then there’s my glove;
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Both | ’Tis most nobly spoken. |
Alcibiades | Descend, and keep your words. The Senators descend, and open the gates. |
Enter Soldier. | |
Soldier |
My noble general, Timon is dead;
|
Alcibiades |
Reads the epitaph. “Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft:
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