Internet Shakespeare Editions

Author: William Shakespeare
Not Peer Reviewed

Timon of Athens (Folio 1, 1623)

Enter Varro's man, meeting others. All Timons Creditors to
wait for his comming out. Then enter Lucius
and Hortensius.
1120Var. man. Well met, goodmorrow Titus & Hortensius
Timon of Athens. 87
Tit. The like to you kinde Varro.
Hort. Lucius, what do we meet together?
Luci. I, and I think one businesse do's command vs all.
For mine is money.
1125Tit. So is theirs, and ours.
Enter Philotus.
Luci. And sir Philotus too.
Phil. Good day at once.
Luci. Welcome good Brother.
1130What do you thinke the houre?
Phil. Labouring for Nine.
Luci. So much?
Phil. Is not my Lord seene yet?
Luci. Not yet.
1135Phil. I wonder on't, he was wont to shine at seauen.
Luci. I, but the dayes are waxt shorter with him:
You must consider, that a Prodigall course
Is like the Sunnes, but not like his recouerable, I feare:
'Tis deepest Winter in Lord Timons purse, that is: One
1140may reach deepe enough, and yet finde little.
Phil. I am of your feare, for that.
Tit. Ile shew you how t'obserue a strange euent:
Your Lord sends now for Money?
Hort. Most true, he doe's.
1145Tit. And he weares Iewels now of Timons guift,
For which I waite for money.
Hort. It is against my heart.
Luci. Marke how strange it showes,
Timon in this, should pay more then he owes:
1150And e'ne as if your Lord should weare rich Iewels,
And send for money for 'em.
Hort. I'me weary of this Charge,
The Gods can witnesse:
I know my Lord hath spent of Timons wealth,
1155And now Ingratitude, makes it worse then stealth.
Varro. Yes, mine's three thousand Crownes:
What's yours?
Luci. Fiue thousand mine.
Varro. 'Tis much deepe, and it should seem by th'sum
1160Your Masters confidence was aboue mine,
Else surely his had equall'd.
Enter Flaminius.
Tit. One of Lord Timons men.
Luc. Flaminius? Sir, a word: Pray is my Lord readie
1165to come forth?
Flam. No, indeed he is not.
Tit. We attend his Lordship: pray signifie so much.
Flam. I need not tell him that, he knowes you are too (diligent.
Enter Steward in a Cloake, muffled.
1170Luci. Ha: is not that his Steward muffled so?
He goes away in a Clowd: Call him, call him.
Tit. Do you heare, sir?
2.Varro. By your leaue, sir.
Stew. What do ye aske of me, my Friend.
1175Tit. We waite for certaine Money heere, sir.
Stew. I, if Money were as certaine as your waiting,
'Twere sure enough.
Why then preferr'd you not your summes and Billes
When your false Masters eate of my Lords meat?
1180Then they could smile, and fawne vpon his debts,
And take downe th'Intrest into their glutt'nous Mawes.
You do your selues but wrong, to stirre me vp,
Let me passe quietly:
Beleeue't, my Lord and I haue made an end,
1185I haue no more to reckon, he to spend.
Luci. I, but this answer will not serue.
Stew. If't 'twill not serue, 'tis not so base as you,
For you serue Knaues.
1.Varro. How? What does his casheer'd Worship
2.Varro. No matter what, hee's poore, and that's re-
uenge enough. Who can speake broader, then hee that
has no house to put his head in? Such may rayle against
great buildings.
1195Enter Seruilius.
Tit. Oh heere's Seruilius: now wee shall know some
Seru. If I might beseech you Gentlemen, to repayre
some other houre, I should deriue much from't. For tak't
1200of my soule, my Lord leanes wondrously to discontent:
His comfortable temper has forsooke him, he's much out
of health, and keepes his Chamber.
Luci. Many do keepe their Chambers, are not sicke:
And if it be so farre beyond his health,
1205Me thinkes he should the sooner pay his debts,
And make a cleere way to the Gods.
Seruil. Good Gods.
Titus. We cannot take this for answer, sir.
Flaminius within. Seruilius helpe, my Lord, my Lord.
1210Enter Timon in a rage.
Tim. What, are my dores oppos'd against my passage?
Haue I bin euer free, and must my house
Be my retentiue Enemy? My Gaole?
The place which I haue Feasted, does it now
1215(Like all Mankinde) shew me an Iron heart?
Luci. Put in now Titus.
Tit. My Lord, heere is my Bill.
Luci. Here's mine.
1.Var. And mine, my Lord.
12202.Var. And ours, my Lord.
Philo. All our Billes.
Tim. Knocke me downe with 'em, cleaue mee to the
Luc. Alas, my Lord.
1225Tim. Cut my heart in summes.
Tit. Mine, fifty Talents.
Tim. Tell out my blood.
Luc. Fiue thousand Crownes, my Lord.
Tim. Fiue thousand drops payes that.
1230What yours? and yours?
1.Var. My Lord.
2.Var. My Lord.
Tim. Teare me, take me, and the Gods fall vpon you.
Exit Timon.
1235Hort. Faith I perceiue our Masters may throwe their
caps at their money, these debts may well be call'd despe-
rate ones, for a madman owes 'em. Exeunt.