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, 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 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 Pain. How fhall I understand you? You fee, how all conditions, how all minds, 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, Poet. Nay, but hear me on: All those which were his fellows but of late, Make facred even his ftirrop; and through him 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 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 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 |