Poet. Then this breaking of his, Ha's beene but a Try for his Friends? Painter. Nothing else: You shall see him a Palme in Athens againe, And flourish with the highest: Therefore, 'tis not amisse, we tender our loues To him, in this suppos'd distresse of his: It will shew honestly in vs, And is very likely, to loade our purposes With what they trauaile for, If it be a iust and true report, that goes Of his hauing Poet. What haue you now To present vnto him? Painter. Nothing at this time But my Visitation: onely I will promise him An excellent Peece Poet. I must serue him so too; Tell him of an intent that's comming toward him Painter. Good as the best. Promising, is the verie Ayre o'th' Time; It opens the eyes of Expectation. Performance, is euer the duller for his acte, And but in the plainer and simpler kinde of people, The deede of Saying is quite out of vse. To Promise, is most Courtly and fashionable; Performance, is a kinde of Will or Testament Which argues a great sicknesse in his iudgement That makes it. Enter Timon from his Caue. Timon. Excellent Workeman, Thou canst not paint a man so badde As is thy selfe Poet. I am thinking What I shall say I haue prouided for him: It must be a personating of himselfe: A Satyre against the softnesse of Prosperity, With a Discouerie of the infinite Flatteries That follow youth and opulencie Timon. Must thou needes Stand for a Villaine in thine owne Worke? Wilt thou whip thine owne faults in other men? Do so, I haue Gold for thee Poet. Nay let's seeke him. Then do we sinne against our owne estate, When we may profit meete, and come too late Painter. True: When the day serues before blacke-corner'd night; Finde what thou want'st, by free and offer'd light. Come Tim. Ile meete you at the turne: What a Gods Gold, that he is worshipt In a baser Temple, then where Swine feede? 'Tis thou that rigg'st the Barke, and plow'st the Fome, Setlest admired reuerence in a Slaue, To thee be worshipt, and thy Saints for aye: Be crown'd with Plagues, that thee alone obay. Fit I meet them Poet. Haile worthy Timon Pain. Our late Noble Master Timon. Haue I once liu'd To see two honest men? Poet. Sir: Hauing often of your open Bounty tasted, Hearing you were retyr'd, your Friends falne off, Whose thankelesse Natures (O abhorred Spirits) Not all the Whippes of Heauen, are large enough. What, to you, Whose Starre-like Noblenesse gaue life and influence To their whole being? I am rapt, and cannot couet The monstrous bulke 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 seene, and knowne Pain. He, and my selfe Haue trauail'd in the great showre of your guifts, And sweetly felt it Timon. I, you are honest man Painter. We are hither come To offer you our seruice