TIMON.
[Aside.] I'll meet you at the turn. What a god's gold,
That he is worshipp'd in a baser temple
Than where swine feed!
'Tis thou that rigg'st the bark and plough'st the foam,
Settlest admired reverence in a slave.
To thee be worship! and thy saints for aye
Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey!
Fit I meet them.

[Advancing from his cave.]

POET.
Hail, worthy Timon!

PAINTER.
Our late noble master!

TIMON.
Have I once liv'd to see two honest men?

POET.
Sir,
Having often of your open bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall'n off,
Whose thankless natures--O abhorred spirits!
Not all the whips of heaven are large enough--
What! to you,
Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence
To their whole being! I am rapt, and cannot cover