I wonder on't; he was wont to shine at seven.
Ay, but the days are wax'd shorter with him;
You must consider that a prodigal course
Is like the sun's, but not like his recoverable.
'Tis deepest winter in Lord Timon's purse;
That is, one may reach deep enough and yet
If money were as certain as your waiting,
'Twere sure enough.
Why then preferr'd you not your sums and bills
When your false masters eat of my lord's meat?
Then they could smile, and fawn upon his debts,
And take down th' int'rest into their glutt'nous maws.
You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up;
Let me pass quietly.
Believe't, my lord and I have made an end:
I have no more to reckon, he to spend.
Ay, but this answer will not serve.
If 'twill not serve, 'tis not so base as you,
For you serve knaves.
O, here's Servilius; now we shall know some answer.
If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other
hour, I should derive much from't; for take't of my soul, my lord
leans wondrously to discontent. His comfortable temper has
forsook him; he's much out of health and keeps his chamber.
Many do keep their chambers are not sick;
And if it be so far beyond his health,
Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts,
And make a clear way to the gods.
What, are my doors oppos'd against my passage?
Have I been ever free, and must my house
Be my retentive enemy, my gaol?
The place which I have feasted, does it now,
Like all mankind, show me an iron heart?