Timon of Athens

Poet
Good day, sir.
Painter
I am glad you’re well.
Poet
I have not seen you long. How goes the world?
Painter
It wears, sir, as it grows.

I will say of it,
It tutors nature. Artificial strife
Lives in these touches livelier than life.

Poet
Ay,
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Poet
You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.
(Indicating his poem.)
I have in this rough work shaped out a man
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment. My free drift
Halts not particularly but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax. No leveled malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold,
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Poet
You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. Indicating his poem.
I have in this rough work shaped out a man
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment. My free drift
Halts not particularly but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax. No leveled malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold,
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Timon
Sir, your jewel
Hath suffered under praise.
Jeweler
What, my lord? Dispraise?

Things of like value, differing in the owners,
Are prizèd by their masters. Believe ’t, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by the wearing it

Timon
A mere satiety of commendations.
If I should pay you for ’t as ’tis extolled,
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Ventidius
Most honored Timon,
It hath pleased the gods to remember my father’s age
And call him to long peace.
He is gone happy and has left me rich.

I gave it freely ever, and there’s none
Can truly say he gives if he receives.

Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound
To your free heart,
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Timon
O Apemantus, you are welcome.
Apemantus
No, you shall not make me welcome.
I come to have thee thrust me out of doors.
Timon
Fie, thou ’rt a churl. You’ve got a humor there
Does not become a man. ’Tis much to blame.—
They say, my lords, Ira furor brevis est,
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First Lord
Might we but have that happiness, my
lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby
we might express some part of our zeals, we
should think ourselves forever perfect.

We are born to do benefits. And what better
or properer can we call our own than the
riches of our friends?

Timon
O,
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Hoy-day!
What a sweep of vanity comes this way.
They dance? They are madwomen.
Like madness is the glory of this life
As this pomp shows to a little oil and root.

Who lives that’s not depravèd or depraves?
Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves
Of their friends’ gift?

We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves
And spend our flatteries to drink those men
Upon whose age we void it up again
With poisonous spite and envy.
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Timon
I’ll hunt with him; and let them be received,
Not without fair reward. Servant exits.
Flavius, aside
What will this come to?
He commands us to provide, and give great gifts,
And all out of an empty coffer.

Happier is he that has no friend to feed
Than such that do e’en enemies exceed.
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Apemantus
What a coil’s here,
Serving of becks and jutting-out of bums!
I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums
That are given for ’em. Friendship’s full of dregs.
Methinks false hearts should never have sound legs.
Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on court’sies.

O, that men’s ears should be
To counsel deaf,
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