TIMON. O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you. How had you been my friends else? Why have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart? I have told more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf. And thus far I confirm you. O you gods, think I, what need we have any friends if we should ne’er have need of ’em? They were the most needless creatures living, should we ne’er have use for ’em, 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 properer 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. O joy’s e’en made away ere’t can be born! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks. To forget their faults, I drink to you. APEMANTUS. Thou weep’st to make them drink, Timon. SECOND LORD. Joy had the like conception in our eyes And, at that instant like a babe sprung up. APEMANTUS. Ho, ho! I laugh to think that babe a bastard. THIRD LORD. I promise you, my lord, you moved me much. APEMANTUS. Much! [_A tucket sounds._] TIMON. What means that trump? Enter a Servant. How now? SERVANT. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most desirous of admittance. TIMON. Ladies? What are their wills? SERVANT. There comes with them a forerunner, my lord, which bears that office, to signify their pleasures. TIMON. I pray, let them be admitted. [_Exit Servant._] Enter Cupid. CUPID. Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all That of his bounties taste! The five best senses Acknowledge thee their patron and come freely To gratulate thy plenteous bosom. There Taste, touch, all, pleased from thy table rise; They only now come but to feast thine eyes. TIMON. They’re welcome all, let ’em have kind admittance. Music, make their welcome! FIRST LORD. You see, my lord, how ample you’re beloved. Music. Enter a masque of Ladies as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing. APEMANTUS. 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. 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. Who lives that’s not depraved or depraves? Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves Of their friend’s gift? I should fear those that dance before me now Would one day stamp upon me. ’T has been done. Men shut their doors against a setting sun. [_The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of Timon, and to show their loves each singles out an Amazon, and all dance, men with women, a lofty strain or two to the hautboys, and cease._]