Shakespeare’s First Folio is a Webnovel created by William Shakespeare.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
Pain. As I tooke note of the place, it cannot be farre where he abides
Poet. What’s to be thought of him?
Does the Rumor hold for true, That hee’s so full of Gold?
Painter. Certaine.
Alcibiades reports it: Phrinica and Timandylo Had Gold of him. He likewise enrich’d Poore stragling Souldiers, with great quant.i.ty.
‘Tis saide, he gaue vnto his Steward A mighty summe
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 G.o.ds 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.blenesse gaue life and influence To their whole being? I am rapt, and cannot couet The monstrous bulke of this Ingrat.i.tude 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
Timon. Most honest men: Why how shall I requite you?
Can you eate Roots, and drinke cold water, no?
Both. What we can do, Wee’l do to do you seruice
Tim. Y’are honest men, Y’haue heard that I haue Gold, I am sure you haue, speake truth, y’are honest men
Pain. So it is said my n.o.ble Lord, but therefore Came not my Friend, nor I
Timon. Good honest men: Thou draw’st a counterfet Best in all Athens, th’art indeed the best, Thou counterfet’st most liuely
Pain. So, so, my Lord
Tim. E’ne so sir as I say. And for thy fiction, Why thy Verse swels with stuffe so fine and smooth, That thou art euen Naturall in thine Art.
But for all this (my honest Natur’d friends) I must needs say you haue a little fault, Marry ’tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I You take much paines to mend
Both. Beseech your Honour To make it knowne to vs
Tim. You’l take it ill
Both. Most thankefully, my Lord
Timon. Will you indeed?
Both. Doubt it not worthy Lord
Tim. There’s neuer a one of you but trusts a Knaue, That mightily deceiues you
Both. Do we, my Lord?
Tim. I, and you heare him cogge, See him dissemble, Know his grosse patchery, loue him, feede him, Keepe in your bosome, yet remaine a.s.sur’d That he’s a made-vp-Villaine
Pain. I know none such, my Lord
Poet. Nor I
Timon. Looke you, I loue you well, Ile giue you Gold Rid me these Villaines from your companies; Hang them, or stab them, drowne them in a draught, Confound them by some course, and come to me, Ile giue you Gold enough
Both. Name them my Lord, let’s know them
Tim. You that way, and you this: But two in Company: Each man a part, all single, and alone, Yet an arch Villaine keepes him company: If where thou art, two Villaines shall not be, Come not neere him. If thou would’st not recide But where one Villaine is, then him abandon.
Hence, packe, there’s Gold, you came for Gold ye slaues: You haue worke for me; there’s payment, hence, You are an Alc.u.mist, make Gold of that: Out Rascall dogges.
Exeunt.
Enter Steward, and two Senators.