Timon of Athens
Act IV, Scene 2
Athens. A room in Timon’s house.
- Enter Steward Flavius with two of Timon’s Servants,
- Flaminius and Servilius.
Flaminius1 - 2
- Hear you, Master Steward, where’s our master?
- Are we undone, cast off, nothing remaining?
Flavius3 - 5
- Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you?
- Let me be recorded by the righteous gods,
- I am as poor as you.
Flaminius6 - 9
- Such a house broke?
- So noble a master fall’n, all gone, and not
- One friend to take his fortune by the arm,
- And go along with him.
Servilius10 - 17
- As we do turn our backs
- From our companion thrown into his grave,
- So his familiars to his buried fortunes
- Slink all away, leave their false vows with him,
- Like empty purses pick’d; and his poor self,
- A dedicated beggar to the air,
- With his disease of all-shunn’d poverty,
- Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows.
- Enter other Servants.
- All broken implements of a ruin’d house.
Timon’s Servant19 - 24
- Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery,
- That see I by our faces; we are fellows still,
- Serving alike in sorrow. Leak’d is our bark,
- And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck,
- Hearing the surges threat; we must all part
- Into this sea of air.
Flavius25 - 53
- Good fellows all,
- The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you.
- Where ever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake
- Let’s yet be fellows. Let’s shake our heads, and say,
- As ’twere a knell unto our master’s fortunes,
- “We have seen better days.” Let each take some;
- Giving them money.
- Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more:
- Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.
- Embrace, and part several ways.
- O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us!
- Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,
- Since riches point to misery and contempt?
- Who would be so mock’d with glory, or to live
- But in a dream of friendship,
- To have his pomp, and all what state compounds,
- But only painted, like his varnish’d friends?
- Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart,
- Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood,
- When man’s worst sin is, he does too much good!
- Who then dares to be half so kind again?
- For bounty, that makes gods, do still mar men.
- My dearest lord, blest to be most accurs’d,
- Rich only to be wretched, thy great fortunes
- Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord,
- He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat
- Of monstrous friends; nor has he with him to
- Supply his life, or that which can command it.
- I’ll follow and inquire him out.
- I’ll ever serve his mind with my best will;
- Whilst I have gold, I’ll be his steward still.