Hort. Faith I perceiue our Masters may throwe their
caps at their money, these debts may well be call'd desperate
ones, for a madman owes 'em.

Exeunt.

Enter Timon.

Timon. They haue e'ene put my breath from mee the
slaues. Creditors? Diuels

Stew. My deere Lord

Tim. What if it should be so?
Stew. My Lord

Tim. Ile haue it so. My Steward?
Stew. Heere my Lord

Tim. So fitly? Go, bid all my Friends againe,
Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius Vllorxa: All,
Ile once more feast the Rascals

Stew. O my Lord, you onely speake from your distracted
soule; there's not so much left to furnish out a moderate
Table

Tim. Be it not in thy care:
Go I charge thee, inuite them all, let in the tide