Thieves, Senators, Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mercer and Merchant; with divers Servants and Attendants.

SCENE, Athens; and the Woods not far from it.

ΤΙΜΟΝ

TIMON of ATHENS.

ACT I. SCENE

A Hall in Timon's Houfe.

I.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Mercer, at feveral Doors.

GOOD-day, Sir.

POET.

Pain. I am glad y' are well.

Poet. I have not feen you long; how goes the world?

Pain. It wears, Sir, as it goes.

Poet. Ay, that's well known.

But what particular rarity? what fo ftrange,
Which manifold Record not matches? fee,
(Magic of Bounty !) all thefe Spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd to attend. I know the merchant.
Pain. I know them both; th' other's a jeweller.
Mer. O'tis a worthy lord!

Jew. Nay, that's moft fixt.

Mer. A moft incomparable man, breath'd as it were To an untirable and continuate goodness.

He paffes

Jew. I have a jewel here.

Mer. O, pray, let's fee't:

For the lord Timon, Sir?

Jew. If he will touch the eftimate: but for thatPoet. When we for recompence have prais'd the vile, It fains the glory in that happy verse

Which aptly fings the good.

Mer.

Mer. 'Tis a good form.

[Looking on the jewel.

Jew. And rich; here is a water, look ye.

Pain. You're rapt, Sir, in fome work, fome dedi

cation

To the great lord.

Poet. A thing flipt idly from me.

Our Poefy is as a Gum, which iffues

From whence 'tis nourished.

The fire i' th' flint

Shews not, 'till it be ftruck: our gentle flame
Provokes itself,—and like the current flies

Each Bound it chafes.

Pain. A picture, Sir :forth?

What have you there?

-when comes your book

Poet. Upon the heels of my prefentment, Sir. Let's fee your piece.

Pain. 'Tis a good piece.

Poet, So 'tis,

This comes off well and excellent.

Pain. Indiff'rent.

Poet. Admirable! how this grace

Speaks his own standing? what a mental power This eye fhoots forth? how big imagination Moves in this lip? to th' dumbness of the gefture One might interpret.

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life: Here is a touch -is't good?

Poet. I'll fay of it,

It tutors Nature; artificial ftrife

Lives in those touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators.

Pain. How this lord is followed!

Poet. The Senators of Athens! happy man!

Pain. Look, more!

Poet. You fee this confluence, this great flood of vifiters.

I have, in this rough Work, fhap'd out a Man, Whom this beneath-world doth embrace and hug

With ampleft entertainment. My free drift
Halts not particular, but moves itself
*In a wide fea of wax; † no leven'd malice
Infects one Comma in the course I hold,
But flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind.

Pain. How fhall I understand you?
Poet. I'll unbolt to you.

You fee, how all conditions, how all minds,
As well of glib and flipp'ry natures, as
Of grave and auftere quality, tender down
Their Service to lord Timon: his large fortune,
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance
All forts of hearts; yea, from the glafs-fac'd flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better
Than to abhor himself; ev'n he drops down
The knee before him, and returns in peace
Moft rich in Timon's nod.

Pain. I faw them speak together.

Poet. I have upon a high and pleasant hill Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The Bafe o'th' mount Is rank'd with all deferts, all kind of natures, That labour on the bofom of this sphere To propagate their ftates; amongst them all, Whofe eyes are on this fov'reign lady fixt, One do I perfonate of Timon's frame,

Whom Fortune with her iv'ry hand wafts to her, Whofe prefent grace to prefent flaves and fervants Tranflates his rivals.

Pain. 'Tis conceiv'd, to scope,

This throne, this Fortune, and this Hill, methinks,

In a wide fea of wax ;] Anciently they wrote upon waxen Tables th an Iron Stile. Oxford Editor. tno levell'd malice] Why this Epithet to Malice? which belongs to all Actions whatsoever, which have their Aim or Level. Shakespear wrore,

-no leven'd malice

Warb.

With one man becken'd from the reft below,
Bowing his head against the fteepy mount
To climb his happiness, would be well expreft
In our condition.

Poet. Nay, but hear me on:

All those which were his fellows but of late,
Some better than his value, on the moment
Follow his ftrides; his lobbies fill with tendance;
Rain facrificial whifp'rings in his ear;

Make facred even his ftirrop; and through him
Drink the free air.

Pain Ay, marry, what of these?

Puet. When Fortune in her ihift and change of mood Spurns down her late belov'd, all his Dependants (Which labour'd after to the mountains top, Even on their knees and hands,) let him flip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot. Pain. 'Tis common:

A thousand moral Paintings I can fhew,

That fhall demonftrate these quick blows of fortune
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well
To fhew lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen
The foot above the head.

Trumpets found. Enter Timon, addreffing himself courteously to every fuitor.

Tim. IMPRISO

MPRISON'D is he, fay you?

[To a Messenger.

Mef. Ay, my good lord; five talents is his debt, His means most short, his creditors most straight: Your honourable letter he defires

To those have shut him up, which failing to him
Periods his comfort.

Tim. Noble Ventidius! well

I am not of that feather to shake off

My friend when he most needs me. I do know him A gentleman that well deferves a help,

Which