To requite me by making rich yourself. TIMON. Look thee, 'tis so! Thou singly honest man, Here, take. The gods, out of my misery, Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy, But thus condition'd; thou shalt build from men; Hate all, curse all, show charity to none, But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone Ere thou relieve the beggar. Give to dogs What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow 'em, Debts wither 'em to nothing. Be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods! And so, farewell and thrive. FLAVIUS. O, let me stay And comfort you, my master. TIMON. If thou hat'st curses, Stay not; fly whilst thou art blest and free. Ne'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee. Exeunt severally <<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITY WITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED COMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>> ACT V. SCENE I. The woods. Before TIMON's cave Enter POET and PAINTER PAINTER. As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides. POET. 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 enrich'd 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 suppos'd 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 just and 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' th' 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. Enter TIMON from his cave