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Sen. Get on your cloake, & hast you to Lord Timon, Importune him for my Moneyes, be not ceast With slight deniall; nor then silenc'd, when Commend me to your Master, and the Cap Playes in the right hand, thus: but tell him, My Vses cry to me; I must serue my turne Out of mine owne, his dayes and times are past, And my reliances on his fracted dates Haue smit my credit. I loue, and honour him, But must not breake my backe, to heale his finger. Immediate are my needs, and my releefe Must not be tost and turn'd to me in words, But finde supply immediate. Get you gone, Put on a most importunate aspect, A visage of demand: for I do feare When euery Feather stickes in his owne wing, Lord Timon will be left a naked gull, Which flashes now a Phoenix, get you gone