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Hear you, Master Steward, where’s our master?

First Servant 
Hear you, Master Steward, where’s our master?
Are we undone, cast off, nothing remaining?
Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you?
Let me be recorded by the righteous gods,
I am as poor as you.

Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live
But in a dream of friendship

First Servant
Such a house broke?
So noble a master fall’n, all gone, and not
One friend to take his fortune by the arm
And go along with him?
Second Servant
As we do turn our backs
From our companion thrown into his grave,
So his familiars to his buried fortunes
Slink all away, leave their false vows with him,
Like empty purses picked; and his poor self,
A dedicated beggar to the air,
With his disease of all-shunned poverty,
Walks, like contempt, alone.
 Enter other Servants.
More of our fellows.
All broken implements of a ruined house.
Third Servant
Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery.
That see I by our faces. We are fellows still,
Serving alike in sorrow. Leaked is our bark,
And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck,
Hearing the surges threat. We must all part
Into this sea of air.
Good fellows all,
The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you.
Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake
Let’s yet be fellows. Let’s shake our heads and say,
As ’twere a knell unto our master’s fortunes,
“We have seen better days.” (He offers them
money.) Let each take some.
Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more.
Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.
 The Servants embrace and part several ways.
O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us!
Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,
Since riches point to misery and contempt?
Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live
But in a dream of friendship,
To have his pomp and all what state compounds
But only painted, like his varnished friends?
Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart,
Undone by goodness! Strange unusual blood
When man’s worst sin is he does too much good!
Who then dares to be half so kind again?
For bounty, that makes gods, do still mar men.
My dearest lord, blest to be most accursed,
Rich only to be wretched, thy great fortunes
Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord!
He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat
Of monstrous friends,
Nor has he with him to supply his life,
Or that which can command it.
I’ll follow and inquire him out.
I’ll ever serve his mind with my best will.
Whilst I have gold, I’ll be his steward still.
 He exits.

Act 4
Scene 2
Line 1

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